


Rough Drafts

by brodayhey



Series: Handholding [1]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Book, Gen, Holding Hands, M/M, Middle-earth POC, gratuitous descriptions of dwarf architecture, we don't do the movieverse around here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodayhey/pseuds/brodayhey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of narrative that Bilbo deemed too close to publish in There and Back Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins, and Bilbo grows ever closer to the great Thorin Oakenshield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A disclaimer before we begin: this is my first Tolkien fic, so please be gentle with me.
> 
> I started this fic after seeing a prompt on tumblr that went a little something like this: “You’re afraid that you’ll lose me in big crowds so you always hold my hand but now you just hold my hand when there’s only, like, five people around and I’m getting very suspicious”. I planned at first on writing two or three drabbles, and it quickly spiraled into a 60k work orz.
> 
> This has been in the works for a solid four months or so, and I could never have completed it without the help and encouragement of my best friend. This fic is dedicated to her.
> 
> Also, I would just like to say that I was definitely not lying in my tags! I have totally disregarded the movieverse in this fic. This is completely book canon with two exceptions: the relationship between Bilbo and Thorin, and one short stop in Bree.
> 
> Since I am ignoring Peter Jackson's work, this is all Middle-earth in my head, with the way I picture the characters and the places mentioned. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

“I apologize, Master Dwarf!” Bilbo cried, as he pulled the sky blue-cloaked dwarrow off of his tiled and carpeted floor. He had continued to just lay there with a scowl, even after the other dwarves got off of him. The hobbit was not sure why he was apologizing, only that he really did not like that dwarf’s glare being directed at him. “I am really, very sorry!”

The regal looking dwarf did not look very pleased to be on the floor of Bilbo Baggins’ smial. His glare from his dark eyes and the scowl on his lips, making his beard twitch, made Bilbo just bob up and down and say “sorry, sorry, sorry!” all the more.

Eventually the dwarf, if only to get the hobbit to calm down a bit, clasped Bilbo’s hand and stopped his scowling.

“Pray don’t mention it,” said the enormously important Thorin Oakenshield.

 

* * *

 

The world of Men was a very intimidating place to be for one of the Little Folk. Everyone was two or three heads taller than any respectable hobbit. All were clomping and stomping about in leather and sheepskin boots. And if one took a look at some of the hobbits around the village of Bree, not a single foot seemed to be brushed! If you had asked Bilbo, he would tell you that these foreigners could stay across the water with their tunics and weather-stained cloaks, with their stories of goblins and other interesting and adventurous and fun things.

Or perhaps he would leave off that last part.

The Company, along with Bilbo and Gandalf, was stopped in Bree to get something a bit more sturdy than a string of Shire ponies, and a horse for Gandalf. Shire ponies were bred for farming, after all, and not for trekking all over Wilderland and back again. And there was also the fact that Bilbo had forgotten a few things in his mad dash to the Green Dragon a few days prior, as he only had about ten minutes to pack. Though he had Master Dwalin’s cloak and hood, there were some other things that were necessary for this adventure he had agreed to go on: an oilskin, some warmer clothes for the colder months that would be coming— mittens, thicker breeches, a wool tunic to be worn over his linen shirt and weskit— and some food was purchased, too.  Some twice-baked scones that would keep well, and salted meat that would certainly dry out his mouth something awful once the he ate it.

The dwarves grumbled a bit about the unexpected stop, until Bilbo produced a few gold coins to pay for the things he needed. Maybe the Company had thought they would have to cover the expenses! Bilbo got that idea watching the dwarves hurriedly stow away their money pouches in packs and hidden pockets. Despite seeing the Gentlehobbit’s well-kept smial, they seemed to think he would not be able to hold his own. Or perhaps they were just shocked that hobbits used gold, simple food-growers as they saw them.

Bilbo placed his purchases into a sturdy leather pack (also new), and straightened up to see that most of the Company had already set off, most likely to get astride their ponies and begin the trek east. Most of the Company save two. One was a wizard who had gone tramping off to the inn a little ways down the pitted dirt road, something about “seeing an old friend”. The other was a dwarf who did not look very pleased to be waiting for a hobbit who was quite the meticulous packer (when given the chance, at least).

“Ready to go, Master Baggins? It is good to see you finally prepared for the reclamation.”

“Er, yes.” ‘ _How formal this dwarf is!_ ’ Bilbo thought. “Shall we join the rest of the Company, then?”

“Of course,” Thorin Oakenshield said. He gave the hobbit a once over, and seemed to be satisfied with something, because he then nodded and took the halfling’s small hand in his much broader one. “So you do not get lost amongst the Big Folk,” the dwarf-lord explained, as he led the way.

Thorin did not talk much, he just guided Bilbo through the crowds. Occasionally he would point out a building, or a tree, and say something about how it had not been there a century beforehand. Mostly, though, he kept his mouth shut and his gaze straight ahead of him. Bilbo pictured the two of them: the famous Oakenshield, leading a little Gentlehobbit through busy crossings like the dwarf was some kind of mother duck. The hobbit had to hide a smile in the green hood Dwalin loaned him at the thought of the image.

“Is this necessary, Master Oakenshield? I am not altogether helpless, I swear” Bilbo said, eventually. It had been maybe ten minutes since Thorin had first taken his hand. By that time, the two of them were approaching the East end of the town, and Bilbo could see the Company at the top of the crest of the next hill over. “I am sure I could not get so terribly lost at the moment.”

The dwarf dropped his hand then, and Bilbo mentally chided himself for almost missing the warmth of it. Thorin then nodded, made a small noise of farewell, and strode on towards the Company, leaving Bilbo behind. Shortly, he felt a broad hand on his arm, but this time it was not the hand of a dwarf.

“Acquainting yourself with the leader of our Company?” Gandalf asked.

“If that is what you call it! You know, he held my hand, Gandalf?”

“He was worried you would get lost, my dear Baggins. A natural worry.”

The wizard had a twinkle in his eye, so Bilbo could not tell if he was joking or not.

 

* * *

 

The trolls were turned to stone, and everyone had cut or wriggled their way out of the foul-smelling sacks they had been shoved into. When Bilbo finally produced the key to the troll’s cave, amongst the grumblings of the Company’s, “ _Why didn’t you say so earlier!_ ”, Thorin walked over to the hobbit. He clasped the hobbit’s hand tightly in thanks before taking the key.

Later, when everyone had a bit of gold jingling in their pockets, or a new helm on their head, Bilbo admired the dwarf king and his new Orcrist; he was running broad hands over the flat of the blade, and its jeweled shaft.

 

* * *

 

The next time it happened, it was not quite the gentle hand hold he was almost getting used to. He had slipped down into a ditch, making a misstep from the trail marked by white stones Gandalf was plucking his way along. The ground was squelchy; moss on the stones making things uncomfortably slick, even for a hobbit’s sturdy leathery soles. Now, when Bilbo took his spill, he never thought, ' _Why is this dwarf lord taking my hand in his?_ ' Because, by the powers that be, no matter how romantic a gesture like hand holding could be to the people of the Shire, you do not really consider that when slipping off a muddy, miserable path into an even more muddy, miserable hole (not to say that he had not considered the implication of Thorin Oakenshield’s hand holding before— because he definitely had). Bilbo was especially not thinking about romance when a pony’s harness was in his hands, and the poor thing could have tumbled in after him, had anyone not saved him from his fall. No, a fall with a pony in grasp would not be pleasant for any party involved, including any of the dwarves standing within a few arms’ lengths.

And as a matter of fact, where was Gandalf taking them anyway? Bilbo’s maps, marked in red and blue inks, posted along the entryway of Bag-End, detailed nothing past Bree. From the sour look on the most-important Thorin Oakenshield’s face, the old wizard would not tell him much of anything about the destination either. Much as Gandalf used to be an old friend of his mother’s, Bilbo was not quite sure why they were all trusting the wizard to lead them somewhere safe, and (hopefully) dry.

Now, for an adventure, things had admittedly been pretty mild for Bilbo Baggins. Other than an awful bout of rain that lasted for an Age, it seemed like, and the distant cries of wolves that echoed through the South Downs all hours of the day, Bilbo found this quest to be quite the mellow one. If he closed his eyes and just listened to the rustling of leaves and the gurgling of the stream that ran near the path, he could almost believe he was in the Shire, visiting relatives near the Bywater.

And the adventure was better with increasingly-familiar faces around all hours of the day. The Company was a rowdy bunch, and they were not quite comfortable with our hobbit yet, but Bilbo felt that they were not so bad to be around. And there was always Gandalf at his side, on a rather intimidating and large horse, telling stories of long-dead kings, and brave heroes, and the love stories of elves and men. And sometimes a tale or two of a brave hobbit would crop up in an old tale of Westernesse, or Belladonna Took’s name would appear, accompanied by a story quite unbecoming of a hobbit of her standing.

Yes, things were peaceful. There was his failure at burglaring with the trolls, but that was but one blemish on almost a month of smooth sailing. (Smooth sailing? What sort of hobbit talked about the sea! How Gandalf was rubbing off on him, this mad old wizard who was advisor to elves and dwarves and more fantastical things besides!) With a pipe in his mouth, he could almost forget the smell of the sack the trolls pulled over his head, or ignore the way his pony’s hair made his nose twitch.

Bilbo supposed a little wet spill constituted as peaceful as well. That sort of thing could happen back in the Shire, so it was not _quite_ an adventure. Just a regular occurrence that made you wet and grimy and altogether miserable. Unless, it seems, you had an heir to the throne of Durin on hand.

The hobbit felt his feet lose purchase with the slick ground, and the only thought that ran through his head was something around the lines of, _'How my cousins will make fun of me for this!'_ As if his cousins would ever even hear the tale! He found fault in himself for thinking that, instead of, _'My, these clothes will be ruined! Master Dwalin will be in a sour mood, surely!'_ or _'I hope my head does not hit against a rock of some kind!'_ or ' _Oh ho, won’t this make these dwarves in their sturdy steel-clad boots warm towards me!'_ Or maybe even some thought to the little sword he now kept stuck in his breeches, which could certainly poke him something terrible if he took a big spill. But alas, he had only time for the one thought before he had to brace himself for the _splat!_ in the mud that would surely come.

Except it did not. He slipped sideways a bit, and maybe the edge of Dwalin’s green cloak got a bit muddy, but he was saved from a large bit of dirt and water when a rough hand, fingers with rings stacked upon them, grabbed his, and wrenched him back onto the path. Bilbo had no time to marvel at the broadness of the hand (as he had before), or the calluses on the palm and on the fingers, which were incredibly thick compared to his nimble brown ones. There was not a second to note how dainty his hands seemed against the dwarf lord’s. No time to make a remark on the difference. Bilbo had small brown fingers, nicked in some places by a kitchen knife, and maybe burned a bit from turning a bannock in the fire that was a bit too hot. Thorin Oakenshield’s hands were scarred and marked from blades friendly and hostile, callused from a century and a half of swinging all manner of blades. Burns were there, from a forge, sparks leaping off a heated piece of iron, hammered over and over again, because each strike meant a little bit more food in a sister-son’s belly. On the dwarf lord’s fingers, rings sparkled, each with a meaning to himself, his family, or his people. Around the wrist, amongst an extraordinary amount of hair (at least in Bilbo’s eyes), bracelets clinked and jingled as they slid over one another. Bilbo had no time to note that the only sort of jewelry to ever grace his own brown skin was made from chains of fragrant grasses and jewel-bright flowers.

No, it all happened rather quickly on that path leading up to the Misty Mountains. There was no stroll through a busy street of men, nor was it a gentle squeeze of gratitude. This was a vice grip around his arm, and a sharp jerk to keep him out of the mud. A hand wrapped around his wrist and roughly yanked him backwards and up, onto the path muddied by the past few weeks rain. Bilbo only knew it was Thorin who had saved him from the rather embarrassing spill from the glimpse of a sky blue hood and a, “Keep up, Master Burglar!” as the dwarf marched to the front of the company, slowing down a bit once he was alongside the bobbing red hood that belonged to Balin.

Even so, it was a kind gesture, Bilbo thought. And if this time he wished the contact between their hands had lasted a bit longer, well, that was his business, was it not?

 

* * *

 

Rivendell was beautiful. Bilbo had heard tales of the Last Homely House from his mother; descriptions of the Loudwater and the streets and palaces it flowed past. Elves seemingly floated through the streets of the city, as well as through the halls of Elrond. Robes in every color fluttered as the elves took their long strides.

Yes, the elves. That seemed to be the problem.

The company had been stumbling by foot or leading their ponies between rocks and trees, and slogging through the streams and skittering down sharp inclines, and no one was in a very good mood, save Gandalf. And spirits did not raise any further when the dwarves heard jolly cries and song from the trees on all sides.

"Elves," the company said derisively, picking their way over stones and trying their best not to get wet, 'lest they receive more teasing about the length of their beards. Joyous calls of _‘Don’t dip your beard in the foam, father!’_ echoed in their ears. “Always capering about! And singing! And what exactly is ‘tra-la-la-lally’?”

"I think your beards are quite the right length," Bilbo told the dwarf next to him. "Once you get used to them, anyhow."

"We are Longbeards," Thorin said. "What did these elves expect?"

"I would be more hurt being called a grandfather, personally."

"I am almost two centuries old," Thorin lifted the silver tassel of his hood up, so it would not drag in anything too distasteful, like ground that belonged to elves, for example. "Approaching old age for a dwarf; they are almost correct. And we dwarves are not the only ones being insulted! If it is consolation, I do not find you rotund, Master Burglar. You could surely fit through any decent-sized keyhole."

"Now _that_ is an insult, Master Oakenshield!" Bilbo cried. "A round belly is most pleasing to the eyes of a hobbit, you know. Why, to suggest that a Baggins could squeeze through a keyhole!" Thorin did not smile, but his beard twitched slightly. He gave the hobbit a nod, then decided he was done with the conversation. The dwarf spurred on his pony, quickly outpacing Bilbo. Eventually a tall elf came out of the woods and exchanged a few words with Thorin, who responded quite gruffly. Then the Company all got off their ponies and switched directions, in order to better ford the Loudwater.

And, really, that short conversation Bilbo had had with (the always brave and regal) Master Oakenshield was the way it was between the hobbit and all of the dwarves. A few words, polite little exchanges, and nothing more. Sometimes Bilbo wished they would be more accepting of him, but everyone knew of the stubbornness of the dwarves, and his Baggins side was perfectly happy just rolling over and letting them treat him like a stranger (which he really was, still). Maybe he would have done something about it sooner, if his more Tookish side had not been distracted by everything Rivendell had to offer.

Once they had forded the Loudwater, they got back onto their ponies and rode for a bit longer. A few minutes, and the Company was in the city itself.  It really was a sight to behold. Bilbo was suddenly not very sorry that the dwarves had denied a meal from the elves they first encountered in the woods. The Last Homely House was a place where time stood still. Bilbo could imagine he was living in the beginnings of the Second Age when he saw the elves of Rivendell walking through their villas and their gardens, intricate yet old-fashioned embroidery on the cuffs and collars of their robes, neat little circlets sparkling over their pointed ears and drops of crystal strung on strands of their long, dark hair.

Rivendell had many things to do. There were libraries, filled with books of history and romance and adventure. Every day there were open-air markets on the streets, where you could purchase anything you could want. There were, of course, palaces, large multi-storied things with sloping roofs and sprawling gardens. In Elrond’s palace, there was the Hall of Fire, where you could hear the best tales and sagas and songs. And then there were the gardens. They were really something to behold! Bilbo was glad he still had a pouch of pipe-weed to smoke on when he sat down in a patch of grass next to an elaborately carved trellis on the grounds of Lord Elrond’s palace.

The hobbit was happy to see a bit of green that was not yet part of Wilderland. The gardens of Elrond were protected, and that meant the tall trees and shrubs and flowers spaced so meticulously would not be housing trolls and wolves and goblins and other unpleasant things they would find once they crossed the Misty Mountains.

The Company stayed in the Last Homely House for fourteen days. Over the course of the stay, Bilbo did not get close to the dwarves, not necessarily. But they did indeed become more familiar with each other.

It was the eve of their leave of the valley, as well as the eve of Midsummer, when old Balin found Bilbo in Lord Elrond’s gardens, puffing away at his pipe and wishing dearly that Thorin Oakenshield’s Company of dwarves would leave him this one last moment of peace before they ventured into the passes of the Misty Mountains. But it was not meant to be.

The old dwarf tottered over to Bilbo’s patch of sweet grass, and fixed the hobbit with a curious look in his black eyes. For a dwarf that would be considered a gaffer back in the Shire, Balin could move quite quickly, and with purpose, and his counsel was wise. There, however, in the gardens of the Last Homely House East of the Sea, was not one of those times when the the son of Fundin moved with purpose. He seemed determined to move as slowly as possible in the valley as long as he could. Bilbo felt somewhat of a kindred spirit with the old dwarf.

He did not feel the same when the dwarf wagged his scarlet hood (newly mended) in front of his knees in greeting, then declared,

“Master Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield and his Company would like your presence at dinner tonight!”

“Of course!” Bilbo said, without quite meaning to. He found the Company well enough, but really preferred speaking with them, rather than eating with them. Bilbo had eaten with the dwarves a few times over the past weeks in Rivendell, but found that there were much more pleasant things to experience. After the first few meals with the Company, he made efforts to eat with Gandalf and Lord Elrond. Sometimes he simply grabbed a heel of bread and sat down in some sunlit corner in Elrond's library. Sparse meals compared to what he was used to, but better than the less-than-prim manners of a dwarf at mealtime. The dwarves were all very comfortable with one another, or something like that, and they were content to reach over small hobbits to share and grab food from each other’s plates, hands, and sometimes even mouths. Bilbo lamented this, but still sat down with the Company on that Midsummer's Eve. He hunkered down in his seat, and slapped away any hands that grabbed for his bread or his bacon.

Along with their unsavory eating habits, the Company all had quite the penchant for mead. They got rather rowdy as a result. Despite the kindness of their host to provide them with such drink, they declared Lord Elrond’s was not as good as the kind they brewed in Ered Luin.

“And certainly not as good as the brew we had in the Lonely Mountain!” they said, or at least said the ones among them who remembered Erebor. And from what he knew about the Company, and of dwarves in general, Bilbo was quite sure that out of all of them, Balin and Thorin were the only ones who could have possibly been old enough to drink so much alcohol as to make their wits addled. Maybe not even then! He tried his best not to give Balin a black look across the table as he talked about the drinks he had tried as a dwarf-lad in the kingdom of Thrór.

"I would like to hear more about your Lonely Mountain, I think," Bilbo said, as he nibbled on a piece of bread from Elrond's table. "If only to stop the talk of mind-altering substances," he added, as a side note.

"And how!" the Company cried. "Your people are the ones who began the practice of smoking funny leaves!"

"Dwarfs do the same, however ghastly your leaf is," Bilbo sniffed. "Now tell me more of the Mountain, please!"

"Very well," they said. "But weren't you paying attention to our song we performed in your home two moons past?"

And then, something happened. Something not expected. A warm and rough hand closing over his upon the table. The hand of a king. The coolness of the rings in silver and gold and metals Bilbo could not even name that brushed against the heat of his skin. A dwarf-lord thanking him for asking, and wondering aloud where he should begin when talking about his beloved mountain.

Thorin Oakenshield described the lands of his fathers, with stunning detail. It had been over a century since the last time he laid eyes on the realm, but he recalled his home perfectly, clear as crystal. There were fertile lands surrounding the Lonely Mountain, where the food-growers of Dale labored to produce enough crops to provide for two kingdoms. Gold and silver and gems flowed out of the gates of the mountain, and gold and silver and gems decorated those that lived within it. Erebor had begun as a dwarf-colony, but after a few centuries of superb leadership, it was a dwarf-kingdom, filled with feasting and songs.

Thorin talked about statues of the famous dwarrows of Durin's line, which filled the halls of the mountain. Dwarf-roads and -paths and -stairs led to beautiful caves and chambers and palaces filled with all the wealth expected of Durin's folk. Tapestries plucked out in silver thread lined walls, and carvings on railings and road signs exemplified dwarvish craftsmanship, which still thrived, even after so much knowledge was lost to Durin's Bane and the cold and fire drakes of the north.

King Thrór's wealth, his ring of power, and his possession of the Arkenstone ensured that his family and his kingdom prospered for generations of men. Elf-kings and lords of men all paid tribute to him, and dwarf-lords of the east and west deferred to him. And how well off his family was, for a while!

Thorin was always wont to go off in tangents when giving his infamous and drawn-out and, of course, very noble speeches. The Company grunted and nodded at appropriate times as Thorin talked about his (mostly) long-dead family, and how Thrór's wealth enabled them to wear the finest fabrics, seams picked out in mithril, trimmed in soft and warm furs. Only Fíli and Kíli looked interested, but they were hearing about their family, after all. How Thorin went on about his grandmother and her servants! They used to braid his hair, stringing it with gems and heavy beads, each with a different meaning. Even when relaxing in their chambers, the dwarf-lord said, his family's hair was well-oiled and braided, just because they had the luxury to wear it that way. Even simple top-knots or three strand braids were perfumed and tied up in strips of embroidered velvet.

Most hobbits could think of better ways to spend a Midsummer’s Eve, something better than listening to an old dwarf talk about what clothes he wore and how he braided his beard about two hundred years ago. Bilbo found he didn't mind. Wasn't it interesting, learning about a culture and a race's history, centuries prior, still firsthand? And perhaps more importantly, didn't Thorin Oakenshield look handsome when he smiled? Wasn't he a sight to behold, even in rough and stained travelling clothes, his hair without the taming touch of oil and tied back with a leather band that had certainly seen better days? Firelight reflected off of his jewelry, making it all glitter and shine. The warm light made his scars and tattoos stand out even more than usual, and his black slanting eyes glittered just as much as the gold and silver in his ears and on his nose. No, this night was nothing like the past fifty or so Midsummer’s Eves Bilbo had celebrated in the Shire. And it definitely not what most hobbits would consider a good time! Surrounded by dwarves in an elvish palace, eating and drinking alongside two different races, one of them of the Big Folk.

But when Thorin took his hand, Bilbo found he could not care whether or not another hobbit would like what he was doing. He was…  well, him! And Bilbo Baggins was on an adventure, and he was holding hands with a dwarf-lord, and his Tookish side was thumbing its nose at anyone who would criticize him for enjoying this.

Thorin lifted his hand a few minutes later, and Bilbo found he did not mind much. After all, he was still considering staying behind in the valley of Rivendell while the Company forged ahead. It would not do to develop some sort of infatuation on the leader of said Company if he was thinking about leaving it.

Of course, it might have been a bit late for that sort of thinking. From the burning of his cheeks and the feeling deep inside his chest, Bilbo might have gone ahead and developed feelings for the dwarf, in spite of himself.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo was terrified. Yes. Oh, yes, he _really_ should have _definitely_ stayed in Rivendell.

Storm giants! Walking, living, mountains, tossing rocks at each other, and crashing into the valley below. All while rain fell so hard it physically hurt when it hit exposed skin, mixed with hailstones and lightning and thunder so loud it shook the rocky ground of the mountain path beneath Bilbo’s sturdy hobbit feet.

A particularly loud crash of thunder— or was it the giant smashing against the mountain’s rise a league or so ahead?— made the Company all lurch forward and sway. Bilbo, worried he might lose his balance, flung out a hand to steady himself. What there was to grab, to anchor himself to, he was not quite sure. All he knew was that it would not be pleasant to end this journey as a hobbit-sized spot of grease in the middle of the Misty Mountains.

His hand did not meet anything at first, but after a moment, was seized and squeezed tightly by the dwarf directly behind him.

Bilbo turned his head and locked eyes with Thorin. The dwarf gave his hand another squeeze and his head a nod. After a while he let go of Bilbo and put his hand instead on the hobbit’s back, gently leading him down the mountain path.

 

* * *

 

“He has been more trouble than use so far. If we have to go back into these abominable tunnels to look for him, then drat him, I say.”

Bilbo suddenly felt a bit less excited about surprising the Company.

He was still a bit shaky from the goblin caves and that… creature that he had riddled with. He could still hear it's hacking and coughing of _gollum, gollum_. And the cry of _'We hates it forever!'_ was still ringing in his ears. To top it all of, his nice brass buttons tore on that dratted guard door on his way out of the mountain. But suddenly none of that really mattered, in the face of what the dwarves were saying about him.

He knew that they thought of him like he was a stranger, even after months of travelling together and talking and sharing meals. But to leave him in those terrible goblin tunnels, to starve or worse? That stung. He hung back from the group, leaving the magic ring on, letting the world stay fuzzy and muted and grey around him. He waited for one of the other dwarves to speak up, to say a kind word or two about him, that he was not so bad a fellow, or should we not let him have the chance to at least try to prove himself as a burglar? Maybe Ori, who he had talked to about his songs and poems and short stories, would stand up to the older dwarves. His brother, the strongest of the Company, could mention that he was a decent chap, and he was sorry for dropping him, and he would be willing to go back and look for him. Dwalin could say that he still had his cloak, and his hood, and that they had to go and get it back. Or maybe Thorin would say that no one of the Company should be left behind, even if he was a little cowardly halfling. Maybe the dwarf would say something kinder, something from the heart to convince his Company to look for his Burglar.

But Bilbo was disappointed. No dwarf said anything in his defense. Not even kindly old Balin spoke up. Gandalf was the one who spoke on his behalf— and Bilbo almost considered turning back into the tunnels himself, to somehow get back to the Last Homely House and throw himself at Lord Elrond’s hospitality. What was the point of staying on this quest if the dwarves he was doing this for did not give a whit as to what happened to him? Once he was back in Rivendell, then maybe he would go back to Bag-End. He would make himself a whole kettle of tea, fry up some bacon, and just try and forget this whole miserable ordeal.

Bilbo did not do any of that, of course. For some reason, he felt the need to prove himself to these dwarrows. It was his Tookish side, determined to prove himself. His Baggins side, as well, was not at all pleased that these dwarrows thought he was no good.

There was also the fact that Gandalf was an intimidating sight when he was angry; Bilbo almost felt bad for Dori as he got snapped at.

It was while Dori was explaining why he dropped him that Bilbo strode into the middle of the Company, and slid the magic ring off of his finger.

“And here’s the burglar!” he cried.

A collective gasp rang out from the Company, and then a cheer. There were smiles, even on the grimmest dwarf! Suddenly it did not really matter that they had said so many unkind things. Because look at how they rejoiced his return! Gandalf called out to Balin, asking him what sort of guardsman he was, letting someone walk right under his nose into their midst.

The dwarrows crowded around him, asking Bilbo how he did it, and where he had gone, since he had not fought with them in the goblin tunnels.

He gave them some excuse, something about sneaking around and being very, very quiet. Bilbo didn't mention the ring. He was not sure why, but it just did not seem like it was worth talking about.

"It is good that you are whole and hale, Master Baggins. That was a mighty impressive tale," Thorin said, standing a ways behind him. He looked a bit of a wreck, dirty and a bit bruised from the roughing-up the goblins gave him. (He still looked better than Bilbo, who was covered in scrapes _and_ whip-lashes _and_ cuts _and_ bruises. He was a bit damp from the underground lake, as well.) Thorin's beautiful, sky blue hood was covered in grime and black and red blood. But the dwarf was smiling, actually smiling, beneath the coarse hair of his beard. The hobbit found himself already forgetting Thorin's silence. He put a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, and held Bilbo's hand with the other. "Now tell us of your adventure!"

 

* * *

 

Some bits of gamey and burnt meat on a stick did not quite make up for the meals Bilbo missed while he was in the goblin tunnels. And it it no way made him feel better about being so high up in the Misty Mountains. Bilbo felt he deserved something nice, something like strawberries and clotted cream, after all he had gone through. Or perhaps a pan full of bacon. Blackberry scones, maybe. His stomach growled even as he gnawed a bit of meat off the stick Bofur passed him. He almost shuddered to think of the things he had just experienced. It was all hitting him, just then in the eagle eyrie. Riddles in the dark, and that croaking creature. Fire and wolves and goblins. A hobbit climbing up in a tree, like some sort of elf! He longed for something normal, instead of this adventure. Soft grass in some low lying meadow— if there even were pleasant things such as meadows in Wilderland. He frowned.

The hobbit was miserable, but he could still appreciate some things. He was alive! Bilbo Baggins of the Shire survived a fight with actual wolves and goblins and the tricks of a wizard. And his hosts were the stuff out of legends. The Eagles of Manwë were an impressive sight; their size and the tales they could tell were astounding.

That did not mean their eyrie was a pleasant place to be. It was drafty and cold and the Company was not… well, the best company! While Bilbo was busy feeling sorry for himself, longing for a blanket and some bread, _please_ , the dwarves were joking and chewing and gnawing on the "meal" the Eagles had caught for them.

"Cheer up, Bilbo!" the dwarrows said. (For apparently, he was Bilbo now, and not _‘Master Burglar’_ , _‘Master Baggins’_ , _‘Halfling’_ , or _‘Hey, You!’_ ) "See the forest in the distance? We are drawing close to the Lonely Mountain! We are alive!"

Even Gandalf was in a bright mood. Despite his confidence, Bilbo was sure that being up in those trees, with wolves snapping at his heels, terrified the wizard. So he was quite pleased that he remained alive.

"Bilbo, you have survived something even your ever-so-Great Uncle Bullroarer would quail at! Keep your chin up, my lad!"

Eventually, he got tired of the crowd. They were singing the song about the Lonely Mountain they performed that night in Bag-End so many weeks ago, but Bilbo found it did not move him as much as it did the first time he heard it. The hobbit did not want to hear a song. What he really wanted a nice, long smoke. He asked one of the Gróin son brothers for a match, (he had lost his in the goblin caves), then shrugged off Glóin’s hand when the dwarf tried to get him to stay around the fire. Bilbo walked away from the Company, sat on a rock a dozen or so strides away, and went about getting his pipe ready for a smoke.

He puffed away at the stem, relishing the relative silence, but also shivering a bit, since he was a ways away from the fire. Bilbo was sucking in his cheeks, focusing on making a smoke ring when Thorin sat next to him on the rock. The hobbit blew out the ring, letting it float above his and Thorin’s heads, then turned to the dwarf.

“Yes, Master Oakenshield?” he asked. “Did you need something?”

The dwarf-lord did not respond immediately. He just looked out to the east, to where the Lonely Mountain rested somewhere beyond the horizon.  
“You looked quite calm, sitting over here. I suppose I wanted a bit of peace myself. I have not been so close to the Mountain since I was a dwarf-lad. I have not been on this side of the Misty Mountains since the Battle of Dimrill Dale— perhaps you have heard of it?”

Bilbo nodded. “The Shire is not so cut off from the world that I missed the story of that battle,” he said. “Most learned hobbits have heard tell of the valiant Thorin Oakenshield, avenging his beheaded grandfather and defending himself from Azog the Defiler with naught but an oaken branch. It was, of course, an honor to have you in Bag-End. Once I knew who you were, at least.”

“So impressive a tale that I often forget my place in it,” Thorin said softly. He continued in a louder voice: “Anyway, it is simply a good feeling to be so close to home after centuries of parting.”

Bilbo just hummed in response. Thorin sighed.

“Do you long for your home, Master Baggins? Is that why you are over here, so pensive?”

“I suppose so,” Bilbo said. “Yes, that’s it. Hobbits are not meant to be on adventures like this.”

“Yours are a soft people,” Thorin mused. “Not meant for quests such as ours. Even so, I feel as if you are not like most hobbits.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. He took a long drag from his pipe. “I still long for Bag-End. Hobbits are soft, as you said. We are certainly inclined to be creatures of comfort.”

“Not like most hobbits, I said. You are not like the rest of your people. Not many halflings could escape a full goblin guard armed only with your wits.”

"I had a sword along with these wits, though."

"A sword is not much use unless you know how to wield it."

“I know how to use a sword!" Bilbo protested. "Stick whatever is attacking you with the pointy end, yes?”

Thorin huffed out a quiet laugh. “That is the idea, yes. Some of our warriors could teach you a few things. I would not want you to be helpless in a fight, should we have to go through another skirmish like the one on the cliffs.”

“That is kind of you to offer,” Bilbo replied. “Though I am not so sure anyone would be able to make a decent swordsman out of me."

"Maybe not," Thorin admitted. "Maybe you will be able to slip out of every fight we get into. But learning some of the basics of swordsmanship would only benefit you." The dwarf took Bilbo's hand that was not wrapped around his pipe, and held it most gently. "I would not like to see you get hurt, Master Baggins."

The hobbit was thankful that the darkness of the night hid the smile that spread unwillingly across his face. "Well," Bilbo said, a little breathlessly. "If the famous Thorin Oakenshield thinks it's a good idea, I suppose I should definitely think about doing it."

Thorin smiled, then placed Bilbo's hand back in his lap.

"You are either flattering me, or jesting."

"I will let you figure out which it was."

"I will put some thought to it, then," the dwarf said, standing up. "I will let you know once I have learned. And I shall have to come up with some compliments in return, if it was, in fact, the former I mentioned." Thorin then cleared his throat, a bit gruffly, and looked behind him, at the Company. They were starting to settle down, and get ready for sleep. "Get some rest, Master Baggins."

“Good night,” Bilbo told Thorin. He ignored the knowing smile Gandalf sent his way, over the fire.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke up the next morning with the thought that he needed to put his tea kettle on. That thought vanished quite quickly once he actually opened his eyes, and saw the rest of the Company gnawing chilly bits of mutton and rabbit, still on the charred sticks they had used last night. He had gotten the best sleep of his whole fifty years that past night. He was so overwhelmingly exhausted that he was well rested in spite of the hardness of his bed. Seeing the sight that was awaiting him when he woke up made him want to drop his head right back onto the rock with a _thunk!_ He could not even stop the groan that escaped his mouth as the events of the past few days caught up with his head.

Nor could he stop his smile, warm against cold stone, when he heard a deep voice ask, “Everything all right, Master Halfling?” Not that he appreciated being called a halfling, but he did appreciate a certain dwarf-lord giving him extra attention.

“O yes!” Bilbo said. “I just seem to have lost the ability to stand up. I am enjoying this bed of stone.”

“Us dwarrows are rubbing off on you,” Thorin replied, a smile in his voice (though not on his face). “Next you will sprout a beard.”

“A Baggins with a hairy chin! What sort of hobbit would I be, then?”

“A very fine one, I am sure.”

“Is this one of the compliments you spoke of last night, Master Oakenshield?”

“If it pleases you.”

Bilbo did not say anything, but he finally raised his head off of the cool stone. He held out his hand to the dwarf standing over him, a wordless request for a little help standing up. Thorin, of course, complied.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo slid off the eagle’s back on shaky feet. Luckily, there were warm hands, one wrapped around his, the other on his back, to keep him steady. Both of them were dropped with a twitch of a beard and the hints of a smile as soon as soon as he was stable on his feet.

 

* * *

 

Gandalf was not coming along for the rest of the journey. Or, well, he would be travelling along with them for a few more days, and then he was leaving them. The point was that he was still leaving Bilbo alone with thirteen dwarves. Dwarves who he was not sure if they even liked him, though they had been travelling together for months.

Once they had skittered down the Carrock, the Company had all but torn off their clothes and dunked them into the Great River of Wilderland rather speedily, so they could get into the river to wash themselves and get all the accumulated grime from the journey off of them. The hobbit sat on the rock where the dwarrows were letting their clothes dry and rolled up the legs of his breeches. He dunked his big feet into the water and ignored the hooting and horsing around of the Company, as they splashed river water every which way. Bilbo tried his best to keep his eyes on his woolly toes, but he had never seen his dwarves without their several layers. They were fond of keeping on their armor and hoods and cloaks on most of the time. It was an interesting sight to be sure to see them all uncovered, as they all had a lot more hair than he had expected. And it was everywhere. He almost couldn't tear his eyes away.

One of the dwarves in particular caught him ogling, and Bilbo snapped his eyes very quickly to the wizard sitting behind him. The summer heat was even getting to him, and he had taken his hat off, and rolled up the shabby grey sleeves of his robe, as well. His silver scarf had been unceremoniously discarded to his side.

"Gandalf!" the hobbit cried.

"Yes?" the wizard asked.

Bilbo fought the urge to say one of his mild curses. He did not actually have anything to say to the wizard! The hobbit was flummoxed. He just wished to look busy so Thorin would not think he was gawking. He was doing just that, of course: gawking. Like some tween sneaking between the hedgerows to get a glance at his love. Utterly ridiculous, Bilbo was. He was a grown hobbit, not some blushing youth. Even so, he did not turn back to Thorin.

"Er…" he said. _‘Quite eloquent, a master of prose, you are’_ , Bilbo reprimanded himself. "How are you, Gandalf?"

The wizard did not look confused at the question, out of the blue. Rather, he looked amused at Bilbo's fumbling.

"I'm quite alright, Bilbo. How kind of you to ask."

"Yes, well," the hobbit trailed off. "Say, Gandalf, I have a question." The wizard hummed in response, looking at Bilbo expectantly. "It is about the leader of our Company."

"And why would you want to know something about Thorin Oakenshield, my dear hobbit?"

"O, Gandalf, I believe you know very well why I would like to know about Thorin Oakenshield! Would you listen to my question, please?"

"I will listen, and I may even answer!"

"How kind of you," Bilbo said, with a roll of his eyes. The hobbit tried his best to come up with a good question to ask, because, of course, he hadn't really been particularly curious about anything. "I would just like to know how old he is."

"Let me think a moment," Gandalf said. His lips moved as he thought about it, making calculations with that brilliant mind of his. "He was born in 1146 in your Shire reckoning, I believe. There was such a celebration in the Lonely Mountain, you know, when he was born. How the line of Durin rejoiced another heir to the throne!"

"But that was almost two hundred years ago, Gandalf!"

"Yes, but dwarves are a long-lived race, Bilbo-lad. At least compared to hobbits, they are. At one hundred five and ninety, Thorin may have yet another one or two hundred years ahead of him."

"He is one hundred and ninety-five!" Bilbo said. He was nowhere close to being a lad, but he just ignored that part of Gandalf’s piece. "Why, the dwarf must see me as a child!"

"I find myself doubting that," the wizard replied dryly.

"No dwarf that old has any business looking that…  like that!"

"Like what?" Gandalf asked, smiling. Bilbo scowled. Was the scheming wizard trying to play matchmaker?

"All strong and regal and—" Bilbo stopped himself. He shut his eyes, and just pointed behind him with a jerky movement of his thumb. He had pointed towards the area where Thorin had last been bathing, scrubbing himself with the sand from the river-bottom. "Like that, Gandalf! O, won't you stop making me feel like lovesick tween!"

"I have not done a single thing, Bilbo. This is all your own doing. And also, my dear hobbit, you may want to turn around."

That is what he did, and he saw a dwarf slogging through the water of the Great River, towards him. He looked back towards Gandalf, and thanked him with his eyes, since he had warned him of the dwarf's approach. The wizard just smiled vaguely and wandered away, as Thorin drew closer.

"Thorin!" Bilbo said, very nonchalantly, he had definitely not just stopped talking about him. "I would have thought you would stay over there, with the rest of 'em. Over there."

"'The rest of 'em'," Thorin repeated, sounding bemused. "Why do you not bathe with the rest of us, Master Baggins? The water is very pleasant."

"Is bathing what you call that?" he sniffed. "I call it roughhousing. Horseplay!"

"My sister-sons may have caused some mischief, but be reminded that they have not even reached their first century. Seventy-seven, and eighty-two, Kíli and Fíli are."

"So young!" Bilbo decided not to mention that he was even younger, much younger than Thorin’s nephews. He thought it might shock the dwarf.

"Both are older than I was for my first battle; one would think they could act as grown dwarves!

"But that is enough about our Company's dwarflings. You did not answer my question! Why do you not wash? Do you not wish to get the grime of the goblin caves off of you? And the scent of fire and burning wolf?"

"Of course! But hobbits cannot swim, unless you are a Brandybuck. And I am afraid the great current of the Anduin would knock me right off my feet!"

"I would catch you," Thorin said, solemnly.

"Would you? That would be a comfort, Master Oakenshield."

"I shall be right here."

"Would you mind turning 'round?" Bilbo asked, after a moment. "While I get undressed." Thorin nodded, and turned around to face the Company, who were still washing in the river. Bilbo noted that the dwarrows had no trouble being unclothed in front of each other. He shivered, despite the heat of the day, his Baggins side making him think of how absolutely un-respectable this was! He kept on his smallclothes, if only to hold on to a bit of propriety.

Bilbo stepped carefully into the water, making sure his sturdy feet had purchase on the slick, green bottom of the river.

"The current is not so strong," he noted. If only to break the silence that had descended over himself and the dwarf standing next to him. The hobbit bent over and began to scrub at the bare skin on his legs.

"It will be more help if you get some of the silt from the bottom," Thorin said. "Scrub yourself with it and it will get you cleaner."

Bilbo looked up to see that the dwarf was watching him. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I am a bit scratched up from my tumble into Gollum's cave, you see. I would not want to get dirt into the cuts."

"The water will wash it right out, yes?"

"O, yes."

Thorin watched Bilbo wander a few steps towards the center of the river. Just a few. The hobbit went as deep as he dared, and scooped some of the gritty sediment off the bottom. He rubbed it across his arms and his legs, and ignored the sting. He was pleased to see most of the grime and blood from Goblin-town slough off along with the mud. He did the same thing to his chest and his back, as well as his neck. It was quick work, but only because he made it quick. He strode back to the bank of the river, back to Thorin, as fast as he could without slipping.

"How I hate water," Bilbo groused. "Not safe for Little Folk!"

"Do halflings have an aversion to water?" Thorin asked him.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Or, well, most of us. Brandybucks are a queer breed, for sure. Hobbits,we are not called halflings, by the way, are not really meant for water. Many fauntlings drown in our streams and lakes every year, you know. And even adults drown in the Brandywine sometimes! Bagginses do not _do_ water."

"Yet here you are," Thorin said. "In the Great River of Wilderland. Halflings do not do anything we have done on this quest, and yet you remain. Bathing in the Anduin!"

"A bit too late to turn back now, is it not?"

"This is true. But you could have turned back at the Trollshaws, or in Rivendell. Or even after you escaped from that Gollum creature."

"That is all true, but I am afraid I am here to stay, Master Oakenshield. You may as well get used to it."

"O, Master Baggins," the dwarf said. He put out his hands in a show of apology. "Am I being unkind? I do not wish to criticize you, my friend."

"You are not being cruel, I promise. It was a good question! I suppose I never turned around because I would like to see you regain your birthright. I did so enjoy your song about the Mountain."

"The song is what made you wish to stay? Perhaps the Company can sing for you more often."

"We can all sing, perhaps. I can teach you all some Shire drinking songs! Or some of the tunes I wrote myself."

"Shire drinking songs would be a delight to hear, Master Burglar. As well as your ballads.” He paused for a moment, then, “The Shire," the dwarf said, in a tone that suggested he was ready to start one of his speeches. "I did not want you on this quest at first, Master Baggins. Did you know that?"

"I got that feeling, when we first met and you growled at me when the Company fell on top of you. In my own home! Then you stomped past me in your big boots and tracked mud all over my nice tiles, without a single _'by-your-leave, Master Baggins'!_ "

Thorin blinked. “I apologize for that.”

Bilbo shrugged. “Its alright. And the nice little squeeze of the hand you gave me in apology made up for it, for the most part, I would say. Now, Master Dwarf, I get the feeling I was about to get treated with one of your famous speeches. Go on!”

The dwarf looked a little miffed at that, but he went on regardless. “I met Gandalf in Bree a few months ago— he may have told you?” Bilbo shook his head, to say that no, he had not.

“Gandalf appeared at my smial the morning before the party. He did not tell me a single thing about this whole business."

“I can see that dratted wizard surprising you like that. It explains why you were so surprised to see us all on your doormat! Anyway, I met the fellow, and recognizing him from my time as a dwarf-lad in the Lonely Mountain, took him back to my halls in Ered Luin. We were talking about taking back the Mountain when he brought up something about halflings. I said some rather rude things, which I shall not repeat, if that is fine with you about halflings. Or well, not repeat it again, as you heard me say it all while in your Bag-End. Cowardly and small and sensitive. Useful only for growing food. I am sorry for all that, as a side note, as you have disproved all of it.

“I simply cannot stop thinking about it, Master Burglar. I would really like to know why you came with us on this quest.”

“Is that what you were getting at? Why did you not just ask that in the first place?”

“I had not thought of that.”

“Surely not! Thorin Oakenshield must give a long-winded lecture before he actually says anything!”

While Bilbo teased him, Thorin was pulling himself out of the river, onto the rock Bilbo had been sitting on earlier. He tilted his head back so his long hair would not drip all over him (the dripping of his long beard, however, he could not escape). “Does it bother you so much?”

“No, it is fine. Your speeches are not so bad. And I think I came along because of those insults you just mentioned! I said, _‘You think I am no good!’_ and then I said something like _‘Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild were-worms in the Last Desert.’_ And I am a hobbit of my word, you see. I will give burglaring a try for you. Or, well, the Company.”

Thorin smiled at Bilbo, and began to braid his long, wet hair into a simple braid. “Its nice to hear that you are serious about this job,” he said. “Does that mean you were jesting about our song?”

“Hm?”

“That it made you stay. The song.” Bilbo watched the dwarf's hands weave his hair into a basic three-strand braid. He noted that the dwarf had left on his jewelry; all his rings and bracelets and piercings and chains. Thorin tied off the end of his braid, and started pulling on his clothes than he had left on the rock.

“Maybe that had something to do with it. But don’t give yourself too much credit! You and that deep voice of yours are not the only reason I stayed.”

“But one of the reasons?”

“O, be quiet, you silly dwarf. And help me out of this dratted river!”

Bilbo reached out his hand, and Thorin pulled him up onto the rock. Together they laid and sunned themselves while they waited for the Company to finish their own bathing. Bilbo probably should not have gotten so giddy every time his hand brushed Thorin's on that warm rock, but that was just the way things were.

 

* * *

 

Balin rubbed at his back, which was starting to feel the ache of everything the Company had done in the past days. "We should ford the Anduin and get to this friend Gandalf spoke of."

"And get some food!" cried the Company. "We lost our packs on the cliff side!"

"Quite right, Balin and Company," Gandalf said. "Do try not to get knocked over by the current!"

"Oh dear," said Bilbo, looking at the water of the Anduin. The Company had all finished their baths, and they were ready to cross the Great River and travel deeper into Wilderland. The river was as deep and it was wide, and while the dwarrows would be able to forge through it, (with difficulty), it would surely go over his head and knock him over.

"I can carry you, Bilbo," said a dwarf behind him. The dwarf was Dori, in his lavender hood.

"Thank you, Dori!" Bilbo said. "I would think you were quite done with me hanging onto you, what with the goblin tunnels, and the trees on the cliffside, and my clutching to your legs on the eagles."

"Do not remind me of that!" Dori told the hobbit. "I will carry you, just try not to pull my legs off this once!"

He let Bilbo climb onto his back, and the hobbit hooked his legs through the dwarf’s strong arms.

Dori got across the Anduin without too much trouble, though Bilbo got splashed and jostled rather more than he would have liked to. He thanked Dori for his trouble, and then Dori replied that it was no trouble at all. He then went to rejoin his brothers, who had crossed the river earlier.

Bilbo felt a hand on his, and turned to see who else but the great Thorin Oakenshield, quite soaked from the top down.

"I was worried you would not be able to get across the Anduin," the dwarf-lord said.

"Dori saw to it that I did."

"I could have carried you, instead, if you had wanted it."

"I did not think to bother the leader of our Company with something trivial such as a hobbit who cannot swim."

"It is not trivial," the dwarf replied. He smiled, then frowned, when he saw a wizard approaching behind Bilbo. "It is no matter. Until later, Master Baggins."

He lifted his hand off of Bilbo's and walked away from him, towards Dwalin, through the tall green grass and wide-armed oaks.

Bilbo then had a hand on his shoulder, and before Gandalf could say anything about his dwarf problem, he asked: "And why is it called the Carrock?"

Once Gandalf started talking about who had named the Carrock, the dwarves of the Company all gathered back 'round and listened to Gandalf talk about the skin changer. It was all very remarkable, and Bilbo kept thinking about what it would be like to turn into a large animal. Then he wondered if he would even be large as a skin changer. Maybe he would turn into something smaller and less threatening; perhaps a rabbit.

It was rather hot, and Bilbo was beginning to think that bath in the Anduin earlier was a bit worthless, since he was sweating so much that it was beginning to soak through his shirt. Drenched and it was not even time for the midday meal, which, by the way, he was missing. Hobbits could endure, sure, and survive a long while without food, and lots of other things as well, but that did not mean it was pleasant. The hobbit would have eaten anything at that point, even acorns, had they fallen to the ground right then. Strange that there were no berry bushes of any kind around. Bilbo's poor belly agreed.

Yes, it was hot, and every once in a while, one of the Company would give up and just sit down, underneath one of the many oak trees surrounding them, and take a small break. And of course, the rest of the Company would join him. Dwarf, hobbit, and wizard alike would all lay down in the sweet green grass and try to ignore the gnawing in their bellies and the heat pressing down on them. No one was in a very cheerful mood, and they wanted to simply to get to this bear-man Gandalf kept going on about. Even if the skin-changer did not like visitors, he could still spare some food. At least, that is what they all hoped.

Once, Thorin was the first to lay down. (A capable warrior he was, and Aulë made his children to endure, but he was not as young and spry as his sister-sons, the dwarf-lord. No one faulted him for taking a break.) Thorin leaned against the trunk of one of the great oak trees, and slowly sunk to the ground. The Company all groaned gratefully and slid down into the cool green grass. Next to him, Bilbo got down and laid his head against dirt and grass, not caring that bits of both were getting into his cloud-like, coily hair. Thorin's long beard just barely tickled the back of the hobbit's neck.

They were not the only two around the tree, of course. The Company had fourteen members, after all. Glóin squatted on the ground next to Bilbo, and began to speak with the hobbit. (He had decided he liked the hobbit, after Bilbo asked the dwarf if he had a family. Anyone who let Glóin Gróinul go on about his jewel of a wife, and his children without interruption was a good fellow in his book, after all.) The red-haired dwarrow, though he talked with Bilbo for a good long while, never quite realized that the whole time, the hobbit had his fingers entwined with the dwarf-lord dozing off beside him. The tall grass, while itchy and scratchy, had some benefits.

 

* * *

 

“Come on Mr. Baggins! There is a gate somewhere around this way.”

Before Bilbo could follow Gandalf, to find the way to Beorn’s halls, Thorin grabbed at his hand roughly, saying, “Be careful.”

The hobbit was still a bit terrified of the idea of the skin changer, but he trailed after Gandalf, following the hedge with the hint of a smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

Beorn let Gandalf call 'a friend or two' into his great hall, in order to better spin his tale. Bilbo was swinging his legs like a fauntling from his place on one of the tall benches that lay along the walls of Beorn’s large home. Watched the bees (which were as big as his head!) buzz-buzz-buzz around the strange flowers in the garden, which marched right up to the wooden steps— when Gandalf whistled for a pair of dwarves to come along, as previously agreed. Bilbo stopped the swinging of his legs when he saw who was marching through the long grass to the wide doors of Beorn's hall. His rocking was replaced with a smile when Thorin and Dori both came in, bowing and nodding and offering their service to the skin-changer, who was quite unimpressed with the display.

"I don't need your service, thank you," he said. The bear-man went on to say that he did not like dwarves, not one bit. But if they were enemies of those filthy goblins in the mountain pass, then he would offer his services. If only the two dwarves would stop bobbing and shaking their heads in their showing of manners! "What are you up to, by the way?" asked Beorn.

Thorin Oakenshield was a strong and capable dwarrow, seasoned in battle and the ways of being a warrior. He could lead a Company across half of Arda, getting them into all sorts of trouble and skirmishes. Dwarven poets and historians wrote about how his oaken-shield and a cry of "Dû bekar!" led Durin's Folk to victory at Dimrill Dale so many years ago. But that was in battle. The dwarf-lord was not the best of leaders in diplomatic or political situations. Some would go on to say that he was just plain awful at that sort of thing. As such, Gandalf responded to Beorn's question before Thorin could even think about answering.

The dwarf looked a little bothered by this, but he let Gandalf carry on and tell their story. (The wizard was the better story teller, and a bit more convincing, besides. Had Thorin told the tale, it would have taken three times as long, and with half as much meaning.) As Gandalf carried on with the story, and Nori and Ori quickly shuffled into the wooden hall, Thorin and Dori both tried to clamber up onto the bench Bilbo was already seated on. Dori scrambled up without much trouble, sitting on Bilbo's left. He beckoned to his brothers as soon as they arrived, and they soon joined him on Bilbo's left side. Thorin could have climbed up onto the bench the same as the Ri brothers, but Bilbo offered a hand up regardless. Thorin sat on Bilbo's right, but did not speak to the hobbit, as the brothers on their left spoke. He listened closely to what Gandalf was saying, instead of conversing. But the dwarf did sit rather closer than was absolutely necessary, and neither let go of the other's hand, not until Bombur sprinted into Beorn's halls, right after Bifur and Bofur, with a rather sour look on his face.

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo awoke the next day, it was to the weight of a dwarf falling on top of him. He had not seen the little hobbit, curled up underneath his wool blankets on his bed of straw.

Bofur said a mild curse in the secret dwarf language before he righted himself and said, “Wake up, lazybones!” The dwarf pulled the blankets off of Bilbo, and then led him onto breakfast. Breakfast in Beorn’s hall was much the same as it was for the dinner he had treated them to the night previous: bread, cream, and honey. And though the dwarves said most of the fare was in their stomachs, Bilbo was still able to eat enough to fill his stomach (and a good deal can fit in a hobbit’s stomach, you know). The hobbit believed that the one thing that could have made breakfast better was the miraculous animals coming to serve him as they did before. Alas, he had to content himself with serving himself out on Beorn’s wooden steps. This was not so bad, with a cool breeze from the mountains tempering the hot summer day outside. And he was content with scritching one of Beorn’s dogs behind the ears while it dozed, rather than having it stand on his hind legs and do something that he could surely do himself.

Once Bilbo was done eating, the Company revealed to him that their host was gone. That did not surprise the hobbit much, as the skin-changer was nowhere in sight. If Beorn could not be heard or seen, it was likely he was not there. He was so large that he could not really hide anywhere. And he did not seem the type to hide from anyone, besides!

What surprised Bilbo was that Gandalf was not in the vast halls. The wizard had, of course, said that he would be leaving. But Bilbo believed that Gandalf would have said good-bye, at least to him! Then the dwarves told him that the wizard had just gone out to explore, but Bilbo still felt a bit uncomfortable not having Gandalf in Beorn’s halls. Things tended to go a bit awry when he was not around, as Bilbo noted. Things like trolls, goblins, and unplanned, heartfelt conversations with highly esteemed dwarf-lords.

Which is, in fact, just what happened that day. The heartfelt conversations, that is.

Bilbo had half a mind to go exploring Beorn’s vast gardens, so he asked, (while feeling quite silly!), one of Beorn’s dogs if he could leave the long wooden house and go look at all of the flowers. All of Beorn’s animals were intelligent creatures, so the dog knew to nod and point his nose in the direction of where the blooms were brightest and where they smelled the sweetest. With that, Bilbo took a full pipe and a mind full of songs to sing to pass the time.

He found a perfect place to smoke in a patch of clover next to one of Beorn’s bee hives. It was an excellent spot because of the shade cast by the large beehive, and the softness of the ground. Bilbo could listen to the drone of the bees, and smell the grass and clover, and imagine he was in front of Bag-End. A few things dashed this little illusion, however. The buzzing of the honeybees was much too loud compared to the small creatures that flitted around the Shire. And almost out of earshot was the deep rumbling of dwarf voices. Dwarfs could be found in the Shire of course, finding the path to the Greenway, but none were ever close enough to hear the grating, low notes of their secret language. What most blighted the image Bilbo had almost created in his head was the dwarvish song he was singing underneath his breath as he huffed and puffed away at his pipe. Still living in Bag-End, he never would have done such a thing.

The night before, at their evening meal, the Company had sung a song about the lands surrounding the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo had been nodding off while they sang, and had not listened to most of the words, but he had picked up the tune quite easily. It was easy to remember the long, low notes that rumbled from the depths of Thorin Oakenshield’s chest. As he sang to himself, he hummed the solemn tune mostly, content with that. The hobbit was most surprised when his quiet humming was joined by a dwarf’s strong voice, right next to him!

“ _The moon set sail upon the gale,_ ” Thorin sang, right behind the hobbit. “ _And stars were fanned to leaping light._ ”

Bilbo let loose a most unbecoming squeak. He jumped high into the air, his pipe almost tumbling out of his mouth. Though the pipe was spared a bit of injury, one dwarf could not say the same. The hobbit, in his jolt of surprise, knocked Thorin’s jaw with his head, hard. It made the dwarf drop the basket he was carrying. (It was Thorin’s fault, of course. He did not have to stand so close to the hobbit to complete the song. But lately, the dwarf had wanted to be closer to the Company’s burglar. He was small, and seemed weak, but he proved himself in the goblin tunnels. Master Baggins proved himself as quite the formidable burglar! He longed for his home, all the while helping the dwarves get back theirs. He sang and smoke and cursed and ate enough food to feed three dwarves. He was a unique creature, to be sure. The hobbit, when he was near, made his heart beat harder and faster. And when the hobbit let him take his hand, and hold it, and stroke it softly with his thumb, it was a delightful feeling. One Thorin had not experienced in a good, long while. Without meaning to, it seemed the dwarf-lord had become a bit smitten with the little burglar.) Rubbing the spot on his head that would surely develop a goose’s egg, Bilbo looked up at the dwarf towering over him.

“You crept upon me quite suddenly, Master Oakenshield!”

Thorin was ever confident, and Bilbo had gotten it into his head that he was incapable of being ashamed. That was disproven when the dwarf looked a bit embarrassed at coming so close. He smiled nonetheless at the hobbit. “I did not wish to scare you. Only to speak.”

Normally, a dwarf could never hope to sneak up on a hobbit. Bilbo should have been the embarrassed one that day, in Beorn’s garden, letting such a large and imposing dwarf creep right up to his little pointed ear. But he had been distracted by his pipe, his song, and the memory of one dwarf’s voice as he closed his eyes and sang of his homeland.

“Then sit down, and we can share words and my pipe!”

Thorin did just that, and reclined in the clover next to Bilbo. The dwarf looked very at peace, Bilbo thought. His hair unbound but for the beads in it, his beard laid freely upon his chest. His hands were clasped in his lap, and it seemed like all of Thorin’s jewelry had been polished and rubbed to a shine the night before, while Bilbo had slept. The dwarf had even taken off his cloak and hood, and most of his armor.

“Well, firstly,” Thorin said. “How are you finding our host’s hall?”

"What is there not to enjoy? The fare is excellent, the animals gentle, and the flowers sweet."

“I am pleased to hear that you are enjoying yourself. I believe the whole Company needs this short rest before we venture further.”

“That is certainly true. If nothing else, we needed the food.”

“Especially you, Master Burglar. You have been looking rather thin these past few weeks. Or, thinner.”

“Yes, I had noticed the same thing,” the hobbit lamented.

“Perhaps now you will squeeze through those keyholes we talked about some months ago.”

“And that would not even be the least respectable thing I have done during this whole affair! Creeping around like a sneak-thief is not so bad compared to fighting wolves or goblins.”

“Well, as long as we are here, you might as well eat as much as you can. Who knows how long our food will last in Mirkwood? Not I.”

“As always, you soothe my fears, Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo jested. “If you insist, I am sure I could eat some more of that dense loaf Beorn has been feeding us. Shall I go and see if there is still some on the breakfast table?”

“O, that is not necessary,” said Thorin. He leaned over, and picked up the basket which he had dropped when Bilbo knocked him on the head. And it was a fine basket too, woven from the strong, thick grasses and reeds that grew around Beorn’s homestead. “For that is why I came to find you, Master Baggins. The Sun is high in the sky, and you have been sitting out here lonesome for some time. I thought that we should share a luncheon, out here, in the grass.”  
“Why, a picnic, Master Oakenshield? How could any hobbit say no to that!” As the dwarf unpacked the woven basket, (filled with, what else, bread and honey), Bilbo said, a touch shyly, “You know, you may call me Bilbo, if you like.”

Thorin was hunched over, his long, coarse hair hiding his face from Bilbo’s eyes. Which was a shame for the hobbit, because the wide smile on Thorin’s face was a sight to see. “Call me Thorin, then. And you may stop calling me most-important, and illustrious, and regal, if _you_ like.”

“Don’t you enjoy my niceties? I work ever so hard on ‘em.”

“Do as you will, my friend. It is just that I feel as if it is not like you to bestow titles. I would not have you acting differently around me, than around others you hold close.”

“You wish to be just Thorin, then?”

“It is what I would like.”

“Hm,” Bilbo hummed. “Well, I think I might like just Thorin. Now why don’t you pass me some of this food you brought, eh?”

Most of the eating was done by Bilbo that day in the garden. Thorin just sipped on the sweet mead he had brought along with him, and watched his hobbit eat an alarming amount of bread and honey. Along with the bread, Bilbo feasted upon several handfuls of blackberries he had plucked off the several bushes on the way to his garden spot.

“Us dwarves can put away quite a bit of food. I am sure you already know this, from how we cleaned out your larder. And from the way we ordered breakfast off of you so very rudely! But when you get the chance you can eat more than perhaps four of the best of us! Come, why did you not eat so when we were in that elf’s halls?”

“I certainly ate quite a bit! Just not with the Company.”

“We were a tad raucous in Rivendell, that is true. We were not the best company,” Thorin said, with a smile. He took another drink from the skin full of mead in his hands.

“That was my thought! Clever words, Thorin Oakenshield. See now, you were the best of the lot. You did not steal a single piece of food off of my plate.”

“And I held your hand.”

“Yes, that you did,” the hobbit said, his voice a bit higher than usual. “Was your Lonely Mountain giving you tender thoughts?”

“That might have been it. Or perhaps you were the cause. Now, about that food again. What sort of meals will a… what did you say it was? A Gentlehobbit? One of them returned from an adventure, all loaded with gems and gold and the like, eat? You could buy a thousand loaves of bread, and sufficient honey to lather ‘em all up.”

“With all the treasure you are offering me, Thorin, I could purchase all four farthings, along with enough food to feed everyone in them. Food would not be the first thing on my mind once we win back your mountain!”

“And what would the first thought be?”

“Perhaps something like ‘O, by the powers that be, I just burgled a dragon!’”

“And after that?”

“Well, I have not thought that far ahead, Master Dwarf. Perhaps I will be wondering how long you will allow me to stay in the Lonely Mountain, with you being the newly crowned King Under the Mountain. I should like to remain there a while, I think, to enjoy what we have worked so hard towards.”

Bilbo looked down at that moment to lick stray drops of honey off his hand— and missed the bright look in Thorin’s eyes. He heard what the dwarf-lord had to say, however:

“You may stay in my halls as long as you like, Bilbo Baggins.” And neither did the hobbit miss the next thing off Thorin’s lips. “I would like to hold your hand.”

A smile crept upon the Gentlehobbit’s face, not of his own will, not really. You and I both know the feeling: something simple happens, and to others it may seem very trivial. But to you, and maybe just you, it is momentous. When Thorin asked, really and finally asked if he could touch, Bilbo felt as if the moment was as large and significant as all the giants and ogres from all those tales his mother, the famous Belladonna used to tell. Yes, Bilbo Baggins' heart was full, and both souls in that garden that day were bright, when Thorin took the hobbit’s hand.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had last watch that night, the first night after they left Beorn’s wide wooden halls. It was amazing, the contrast between Beorn’s tamed lands and the Wilderland lying outside of it. Inside his gate, the grass was short, the trees trimmed, and flowers grew in neat little patches. The Sun shone bright, and she cast her light on the gentle and intelligent animals that made up Beorn’s family.

Outside, the Sun beat down on their necks: there was no shade. Just long, swaying grass and the dark expanse of Mirkwood, growing ever closer with every step the Company’s sturdy ponies took. The forest certainly lived up to it’s name, Bilbo thought. It was darker than the day warranted. It almost seemed like the trees were sucking the brightness and warmth out of the day. The hobbit dreaded going underneath the boughs of that forest. It seemed even fouler than the Old Forest in East Farthing. And that was certainly a foul site to be at! Bilbo had not placed a single woolly foot in that place, and he did not wish to even peep a toe over the border of Mirkwood.

For shame, as he had pointed out earlier to Thorin, there was no going back to Bag-End now! No way to turn around, unless he wished to stay with Beorn. Not to say that he was unpleasant company, but ‘little bunny’ was an unpleasant nickname, to be sure.

Though they were being tracked by the wolves of Wilderland, and their goblin allies, the dwarves had still lit a fire for the night. Beorn had ensured them that no goblins would cross over into his lands, and that they would not, in fact, bother them in Mirkwood either. So Óin and Glóin had set to it, and lit the fire in that speedy way of theirs. The Company sat around the blaze and ate the food Beorn gave them for that night. (He had also given them preserved food for the forest: dried fruit, nuts, hard scones, and honey in stout little earthenware pots.) For that last night outside the confines of the forest, Beorn had given them some last loaves of bread, along with butter and juicy berries, almost too ripe from their time spent in the sturdy packs Beorn had gifted them. So the Company had one last feast, and they talked and sang and jested before they fell asleep for the night. Nori had first watch, and he peered with black eyes over the fire, into the night, searching for a source for all the wolf howls and goblin cries that carried across the open lands leading up to the forest.

Despite the loudness of their enemies trying to track them, Bilbo was able to curl up on his bedroll and fitfully sleep for a few hours before Bifur shook him awake. (Bifur had relieved Nori sometime during the night.) And so Bilbo stood watch until the Sun rose in the sky and started to wake the rest of the Company.

Bilbo had been on watch before— it was the duty of everyone in the Company, after all. Even Gandalf had had a shift, and Thorin as well. No matter how important a dwarf is, in the Company, everyone was equal when it came to taking watch. Not even hobbits were spared.

No one could ever say that Bilbo was a decent watchman, however. He was more likely to daydream than keep a close eye on what was going on around him. Thinking of Bag-End in the middle of summer was more pleasant than hearing the howling of wolves. Had it been a little colder, Bilbo's thoughts could turn to more unpleasant ends: the howling of wolves during the Fell Winter. But the night air was still warm, and he could block the goblin cries and think about how cool Bag-End's tiled floors would be under his sturdy feet, and how much better plush carpets under his feet would feel, rather than the dried-up and shriveled grasses outside Mirkwood. It would be a nice night to sit down with a bottle of Old Winyard, a pipe in his hand with Thorin by his side.

Or well, not anyone in particular by his side. The hobbit, flustered with himself, shoved his hands into his pockets. It did not have to be Thorin, of course. Bilbo put aside that silly thought. Much as Bilbo found himself enjoying the company of Thorin Oakenshield, he was not sure if the dwarf was meant for the gentle hills of the Shire. He was made for mountain halls, after all. No matter what he said, he was a regal dwarf, a royal dwarf. He had no real business getting involved with a little hobbit.

"Bilbo?"

The hobbit started from his spot in front of the fire.

"Burglar, where have you gone?" a low voice whispered.

Bilbo realized he was wearing the ring. Without troubling himself over the thought of _'Now, Bilbo, when did you put that on?'_ , he quickly slid it off, stowing it back into his pocket. He whispered at the dwarf who had his back turned to him:

"I am here, Thorin."

"I suppose my eyes skirted right over you," whispered the dwarf, walking over to Bilbo. He sat down next to the hobbit, folding his legs underneath himself. Bilbo turned his gaze to the fire. "I did not notice you! Is this the hobbitish stealth Gandalf told us about? The kind you used in the goblin tunnels?"

"Something like that," Bilbo hedged. He did not want to mention his ring. "Could you not sleep, Thorin?"

"Hm?"

Bilbo looked away from the fire, and at the dwarf seated next to him. Thorin was just watching him, a slight curve on his lips. "Because the Sun is not yet up. Could you not fall asleep?"

The dwarf blinked out of whatever reverie he had fallen into, and shook his head. "No, I could not. Used as I am to the war cries of wolves and goblins, I feel a bit unsafe in the open. And then I thought, how shall our burglar feel? Out in the open? Alone on his guard? How he must tremble! Of course, Bilbo, you have fought alongside the best of us, so I may, truly, be wrong in guessing that you could be scared. You may be considered one of the best Heroes by the end of this adventure. You are not a little bunny, not really. You may become accustomed to the cries of orcs and of wolves! But even so, I would sit with you a while."

"I shall never be accustomed to it, I should think," Bilbo said. He gracefully ignored the comment of 'little bunny'. "But you needn't be worried about me. And if trouble arises, Gandalf will wake up in a flash! You should go back to sleep, Thorin, I will be quite fine."

"If you say you shall be fine, I will leave you," Thorin replied. He looked down at his hands. "But before I retire, I had one more thing to say, while there is a bit of privacy from the rest of the Company. If you would like to hear it, of course. I do not have to tell you just yet."

Instead of asking what on Earth the dwarf could need privacy for, and why he was now saying he did not have to share, Bilbo replied, "You may tell me anything!"

Bilbo expected anything but a frown to that, but that is what he received. "Not yet, I believe," said the dwarf.

Bilbo nodded, saying that was all well, without any words. He reached over and grasped Thorin's hand. "You can tell me when you are ready, then."

Thorin did not protest when Bilbo began to stroke his much broader hand with the pad of his thumb. Nor did he complain when the hobbit rested his other hand on his knee. In fact, he relaxed into the touch, and leaned his weight into Bilbo, pressing the two of them closer.

 _'Perhaps'_ , Bilbo thought, _'we do not need words for this. Not yet. Maybe this is enough.'_

"If you have no quarrel with it," Thorin spoke slowly, after a long while in comfortable silence. "I would share the rest of your watch with you."

Bilbo just smiled, and did not reply. Keeping his and Thorin's fingers intertwined was answer enough.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo fussed with the straps of his newly-stuffed pack. It was five days after that night by the fire, and the Company was desolate. Gandalf was leaving, and they had to send back Beorn’s shaggy little ponies. Without the sturdy animals, the Company had to carry all their supplies themselves. Fíli and Kíli, (who had been assigned to the tedious job), had words with Bilbo while they packed him up, and they insisted that everyone had the same amount of food and supplies. Bilbo was sure that he had been given more, and he said as much.

Thorin’s way of comforting the hobbit was patting his hand and telling him with a smile that he would wish the pack was heavier in two weeks time, when they were all starving to death.

Bilbo let go of Thorin’s hand when Gandalf announced that he was finally leaving. He sat down on the ground, and wished he was sitting behind the wizard on his horse, even if the beast was much too tall.

 

* * *

 

The nights were the worst part of the forest. Pitch black, so dark that Bilbo could not see his little hand waving in front of his eyes. Mirkwood was gloomy and dark during the day, but night somehow managed to make it more unpleasant: eyes blinked at them from under the leaves, and large moths, black bats, and buzzing midges swooped over the Company if they ever tried to light a watch-fire.

Bilbo was used to his dark little holes, but Bag-End was nothing like the forest. Bag-End was cozy, and lights could be lit if it was dark, and food was to be had, fresh fruits and warm breads, and blankets could be wrapped ‘round a hobbit who was seeking a bit of comfort. And Mirkwood was quite the opposite.

The one thing that made Bilbo feel a bit less miserable was that the rest of the Company was just as discomfited. When they laid down for a few hours of fitful sleep, the dwarrows all crowded together, practically atop one another. It reminded Bilbo a bit of staying with his cousins in the Great Smials. Except a bit hairier, and a touch less loud. Most nights, Bilbo would squeeze in between Dori and his brothers. Occasionally he would stay up later than usual, chatting with Balin about anything you could imagine. Anything to keep their minds off of the eyes glittering above them in the treetops. The dwarf and the hobbit would both wake up the next morning, finding that they fell asleep atop one another.

One night out of the many they spent in that forest, somewhere in the maze and crush of dwarf bodies, Bilbo found himself falling asleep next to Thorin. Dreadful and terrifying as the forest was, the hobbit was able to drift off very easy, his hand cradled and stroked as he smiled down into his bedroll.

 

* * *

 

“There is a boat against the far bank!” cried Bilbo.

“How far away is it?” Thorin asked, striding up to where Bilbo was kneeling in the shed leaves that lined the banks of the river. He held onto Bilbo’s hand as the hobbit leaned far over the banks over the black stream.

"Why, not at all far," Bilbo said.

It took a fair bit of arguing, as well as some trial and error, to get the little rowboat to the side of the river they were on. Bilbo was almost dragged into the river, and would have fallen in without Balin's help. After Balin dragged the boat onto the bank, Bilbo let go of the damp rope and put a hand on the boat as well. Thankfully, the craft was sound, and it had no magic water slogging around the bottom of it.

"Who'll cross first?" Bilbo asked.

“You will come with me,” said Thorin, grabbing Bilbo and lifting him into the boat after him. "Fíli and Balin, you come too."

Fìli raised his brows, giving the hobbit a curious look when he saw that his uncle did not drop Bilbo’s hand once he was safely in the little rowboat.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo shouted in distress at the sudden darkness that fell over the lit clearing. He was not the only one who gave a cry of surprise. Though the Company had been in the inky darkness of Mirkwood for weeks, it was a surprise to see everything go dark after the brightness of the elvish party.

Part of Bilbo’s shout was dismay, however. He had really wanted something to eat. The poor little fellow was wasting away! Or at any rate, getting a bit too thin for his tastes. He was sure they could have begged something off the elves, had they not fled as soon as the first dwarf stumbled into the clearing.

Bilbo stumbled through the dark, scratching himself on tree branches and tripping over rotten logs. In the distance, he heard the rest of the Company doing the same. Though they added more curse words than Bilbo, who just grunted softly whenever he stepped on something squelchy.

The hobbit blundered around for several minutes, and felt a bit like crying, having lost his way so thoroughly. The Company were all shouting, and calling out names, but Bilbo could not locate any of them. He called out as loud as he could in his high voice, calling for help, and for someone to cut down all these ghastly trees so he could stop knocking his head around! And then he began to think too much about it all, and how dreadfully lost he was getting, and the poor fellow began to cry in earnest, not even paying attention to where he was blundering. Bilbo’s crying only stopped when he felt something touch his shoulder, and it was only to allow for a shout of surprise. Then he heard a familiar, albeit hoarse from all his shouting, voice say, “Bilbo, all is well!”

Thorin kept his hand on Bilbo, a comforting touch, as he slowly lowered the hobbit to the ground. Then he called loudly:

“O, Company! Follow my voice!”

The dwarf continued to call for several minutes. Bilbo cried himself out very quickly (not having much water in his body to waste), and sniffled until the whole Company was clustered together and all accounted for.

“There is nothing to be done,” Balin said. “We should stay here for the night.”

“And find the path in the morning?” Kíli asked.

“Of course, Kíli,” Thorin said. “Stay close, all of you. We will light no watch fires, not even this far off the path! Dori, take first watch.”

Bilbo took the dwarf’s words to heart. The 'stay close part', anyway. He did not try to sleep, he sat up straight, ignoring the scratching and rustling of the forest around him. The hobbit sat close to Thorin, their sides brushing. He jumped every time a creature in the forest made a loud noise. Thorin did not speak— Bilbo supposed he was worried about how they would possibly find the path come morning. Or perhaps the dwarf heard the growl of Bilbo’s stomach and was wondering how long they would be able to last in the forest without food.

Something in the woods let out a loud, chattering cry, and Bilbo’s hand shot out. He clumsily grabbed at Thorin’s hand. The dwarf had settled the heavy weight of his hand on Bilbo’s thigh, but the hobbit found greater comfort in having the warmth of Thorin holding his hand, giving him an illusion of safety. Had they not been lost, and had Bilbo’s stomach not been cramping from lack of food, he would have preferred Thorin's hand in more intimate places, back on his thigh. If Bilbo was not worried about the elves from the celebration coming after them in the dead of night with pointy weapons that could stick starving little hobbits, he might have encouraged Thorin to keep his hand there, and perhaps to stray to other places.

But it was not the time for that. Bilbo smiled at Thorin, sheepishly, even though the dwarf could not see him. Thorin seemed to understand what the hobbit was trying to communicate, because he squeezed his hand tightly and hummed softly and patted his knee every time he jumped.

The hobbit was feeling snug and very drowsy, with the warm weight of Thorin at his side, when Dori whispered that the lights had appeared again.

Well, Bilbo was wide awake once he heard that! He sat up quickly, and Thorin pulled him to his feet as they looked at the score of glimmering lights that suddenly appeared. From some unspoken agreement, the Company all grabbed onto one another and walked in a single file towards the lights. As they got closer, Bilbo could finally see the dwarves around him. Their bushy brows were knitted together, and their mouths were twisted in worry. The only one who looked excited was Bombur. Bilbo supposed it was because he was thinking of the dinner party he dreamed about.

They stopped moving a few yards from the brightly-lit clearing. In a harsh whisper, Thorin told the Company to not rush forward this time! And that he was sending Mr. Baggins into the circle, rather than a dwarf, because they would not be afraid of the hobbit.

Bilbo sent Thorin a look of despair at that. The dwarf gave Bilbo one last squeeze (perhaps in apology) before letting his hand go. Bofur, who was standing behind the hobbit, gave him a push which he probably thought was encouraging towards the lights. The Company took Bofur’s lead and kept pushing Bilbo along the line until he stumbled into the clearing.

Losing his balance, Bilbo threw out his arms and tried not to fall face first. He looked up at the last moment, catching a brief glance of elvish folk giving him horrified glances before someone kicked out their fire, and everything went black once more.

 

* * *

 

The hobbit frowned, clutching at his shoulder where the dwarves had shaken him too roughly to wake him up.

Bilbo had cried much in the ghastly forest of Mirkwood, but he still felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes when he thought of the beautiful dinner party he had dreamed about.

The Company was once more moving forward, to an even brighter group of lights than before. There was no need to cling together as they approached: they could see each other clearly. Even so, Thorin held Bilbo’s hand, only dropping it when they were within a few strides of the open meadow where the elvish folk were celebrating.

“I shall go this time,” said the dwarf.

The hobbit did not say anything in response. Perhaps if Bilbo had known how long he would go without seeing the dwarf again, he would have thought of something to say. Maybe he would have finally told Thorin how he was feeling. But he just stood there. He just tried to remain hopeful and watched the dwarf-lord take a deep breath and step into the light.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo flattened himself against the cave wall, and sucked in what was left of his stomach as the elven guards approached. In his hand, he had the crusty heel of a bread loaf clutched tight. The hobbit sent out a silent plea to whichever Valar were listening to keep his stomach from letting out a loud growl.

It did not, thankfully, and Bilbo kept silent and stealthy as he barely dared to breathe. Quite against his will, however, he quietly gasped as one of the dark-haired elves mentioned an ill-tempered dwarf, imprisoned deep within the caves. Bilbo could not stop a smile from spreading across his face, because who else could that ill-tempered dwarf be but Thorin Oakenshield? The leader of the Company was not dead! He was there, somewhere in the Elvenking's stone halls.

Now, Bilbo knew now that Thorin was somewhere in the vast system of caves. But where exactly was he? That was what the hobbit had to figure out himself.

It took much trial and error— picking a guard to tail for hours and hours, stationing himself in one room, wedged into a hiding spot, listening for the smallest hint of where the chief of the dwarves may be. He even snuck his way out of the Elvenking's magic gate, to see if any of the guards outside the palace knew anything.

The hobbit had a great deal of luck, and that was the very reason he was able to find Thorin. Bilbo could not see the moon, not in those elven caves, so he had no idea how long it took to find Thorin (as he had quite lost track of the days). But one day he simply got tired of looking. He sat himself right by Balin's jail cell and said as much. The white-haired dwarf became very cross with that!

"Bilbo!" he harshly whispered. (There was no telling which elves could be listening.) "You have proven yourself, again and again! You bested Gollum in the caves, and you took his ring! You defeated those terrible spiders!"

"Well, yes," said Bilbo. He kept complaining, though he was very satisfied with Balin’s compliments. "But that's got nothing to do with finding one dwarf in this massive place."

"And if anyone can find our chief…" Balin paused, smiling. "You can, Bilbo."

"What do you mean by that, Master Dwarf?" asked Bilbo, a bit dryly.

"Nothing, Master Hobbit," Balin replied, archly. "Just that I think Thorin may be very pleased to see your woolly toes outside his door."

"I find myself doubting your so-called wise words, friend." Bilbo stood up, and brushed off the front of his trousers, though no one could possibly see the dust on him. No one could see him! Not even a keen-eyed old dwarf like Balin. "I will go and find him, then."

Balin waved him off and whispered, "Good luck!" as Bilbo walked away with careful steps.

Mr. Baggins was a hobbit of his word, and he went and looked for Thorin as he said he would. Only, he abandoned all strategy. He did not listen in on any conversations, nor did he follow any of the elven guards who patrolled the prison. He simply wandered.

It is, of course, once you stop really searching for something that you find it. This works with a misplaced house key, your favorite shirt, as well as with dwarves. And so, just as Bilbo Baggins may have found a misplaced pen or hat in his cozy little smial, he also found Thorin in his prison cell. He was in the deepest, darkest part of the caves. The hobbit almost jumped for joy when he saw the hairy dwarf.

"Thorin!" Bilbo cried, once he saw the dejected dwarf sitting against the cave's wall, his head hanging down. The hobbit clapped one of his little hands over his mouth at the noise of his exclamation at the same time Thorin's head snapped up. The dwarf did not move, however, he just kept his eyes on the spot he thought he heard Bilbo's high voice coming from. "Thorin," the hobbit said, much quieter now. "Come here so we may speak!"

Thorin finally stood up, and the smile on his face was infectious: Bilbo found himself grinning as well. "Master Baggins," said the dwarf. He even laughed! He strode right up to the bars, and nearly stuck his head through the bars. At any rate, the only thing that got through was his long nose. "Bilbo! I almost gave up hope. I was very near to telling the elves about our quest!"

"How low-spirited you must feel!" Bilbo whispered.

"I feel a great deal better now," he whispered back. "Bilbo, is the Company alive? Are you the only one who lives?"

"O! No, we are all alive! Everyone is in a jail cell, save me. We got captured after we fought the spiders."

“Spiders!”

“Spiders, yes, and do keep your voice down! Here, I’ll tell you. We figured out where all those dreadful cobwebs came from. The ones that hung down from all the boughs, you know. Alright, I will begin with this:

"After you walked into the clearing, we all got quite lost when the lights went out. I ran around for hours, calling everyone’s names. Eventually I decided to just sit down and sleep and wait until the next day to find everyone. But the next morning I was in no position to find or be found. I was being wrapped up in sticky webs! The Company was captured by spiders!”

“How do you get captured by a spider?” Thorin leaned against the bars, getting comfortable for the certainly long tale Bilbo was about to tell.

“Why, when they are the size of two dwarves put together.”

“Ghastly!”

“Yes, they were,” said Bilbo. “Now let me continue my story:

“The spiders had disarmed all the dwarves, but I am a very lucky hobbit, and the spiders never thought to check the inside of my trousers for a short sword! I was able to slash the webs and kill the spider they came from before it poisoned me!” Bilbo did not mention that before he drew out his sword, he beat at the spider with his hands and squealed loudly for a good while before he even remembered he had his sword. The dwarf would not be impressed with that! There the hobbit paused.

“Not only are you a lucky hobbit, but you are also the fiercest one I know!” said Thorin.

Bilbo smiled, satisfied that the dwarf was able to pick up on his cues. The hobbit was getting quite used to the Company giving him compliments.

“Now I was free, but I was left with an issue. _‘What about my dwarves?’_ I asked myself. _‘How shall I find them? How shall I free them!’_ Well, there was no going about answering those questions where I was, next to the husk of the giant spider. So I wiped Sting— that is what I named my sword— off in the grass, and set off towards the direction where I heard the Company’s cries the night before.

“I walked for a good long while, and eventually I came to a part of the forest that was even darker than usual. Mirkwood is all dusk and gloom, but the part I wandered into was blackest midnight! Through the dark, I could just barely make out the shapes of a whole mess of spiders. All was quiet, and I could hear the beasts speaking. They were gathered around neatly spiderweb-wrapped bundles, and they were speaking of eating. They were preparing for a feast! I was horrified, because can you guess what their feast was going to be made of?”

“Dwa—”

“Dwarves, Master Oakenshield! Strung up on a branch like the herbs I have hanging from my ceiling! Now, I could not let the Company get eaten by spiders, not when we were so close to the Mountain, and perhaps so close to escaping the forest! And how cruel would the irony be if we were to be eaten by spiders while we starved to death? Too cruel! The spiders went for the fattest among the lot first, but unluckily for them, Bombur still had some life inside of him. As soon as the first spider poked and prodded at him, he kicked out, and whap! The spider went flying!

“That really enraged them, and the spiders decided then that they would kill their food, then eat it, instead of the other way around. Now, I could not allow that to happen! I almost weeped at the thought of being all alone in those woods, but stopped myself. _‘The Company needs you, Bilbo Baggins! Do something about it!’_ I said. I could not just run into the midst of the spiders and slay all of them with my sword, of course. I was hired for my stealth! I looked around at my surroundings and found that there was a good deal of throwing stones around my feet.

“Now, Thorin, much time as you have spent with me, there is still a great deal you do not know about Bilbo Baggins! For one thing, I am rather good at is throwing games. Anything that involves good aim, really. I play quoits, horseshoes, I shoot the wand, I can throw darts, I can play the ninepins… And I am an excellent hand at horseshoes! Often I would practice my aim by throwing it at small birds around the Shire. You must not fault me for that, though. My aim is excellent, but the birds were fast enough to always flit out of my way. It came to the point where whenever a bird in the West Farthing saw Bilbo Baggins stoop down to pick up a rock, they would all alight and fly somewhere else! They were all getting tired of it, I suppose.”

“Bilbo,” said Thorin.

“Yes?”

“The story, Bilbo. Tell me. You are good at throwing things?”

“Of course! My aim is excellent. So I grabbed a decently sized stone, and just as one of the spiders bent to deliver a bite to poor old Bombur, I threw it. I hit it, as you can probably guess, square on! Out it dropped from the tree, dead on the ground! Before the spiders could even react, I threw another stone. It whizzed through the air and snapped right through a string that one of the spiders was hanging from. It dropped straight to the forest floor as well, dead as anything.

“I gathered an armful of stones and ran off, just as the spiders congregated at the spot I had been standing in, just moments before! It came into my head that I should lead the spiders away from the dwarves, so that they could try and escape. From my new position, I began to throw more stones. Also, I sang and danced.”

“Bilbo Baggins!” said the great Thorin Oakenshield. “Blessed with good luck, good aim, and the ability to serenade anything. Be it dwarves or spiders!”

“You flatter me! The song was nothing good. I called them Attercop. And Old Tomnoddy!”

“Grievous insults,” said Thorin, solemnly. “Remind me never to enrage you.”

“Just do not threaten to eat my friends, and we will be fine. Now, once the spiders chased after me again, I went to another new place. There I sang another insulting song, and—”

“Sing the song for me,” Thorin said, his eyes twinkling.

Bilbo laughed quietly. “Very well. Do not judge me too harshly. I wrote it in a moment, after all!” The hobbit began to sing in his high little voice:

_Lazy Lob and crazy Cob_

_are weaving webs to wind me._

_I am far more sweet than other meat,_

_but still they cannot find me!_

_Here am I, naughty little fly;_

_you are fat and lazy._

_You cannot trap me, though you try,_

_in your cobwebs crazy._

Thorin closed his eyes and smiled, leaning his forehead against the bars of his cell. “If only I could have been there to hear it! Do stop singing, or else I may change your job description. You will go from burglar to minstrel! Go on with your story, Bilbo.”

Bilbo did not let the teasing get to him, and he continued spinning his tale. “Well, with that song, the spiders got so angry that they actually began to think clearly! They all got together and began to weave a web, one to entrap me! Well, I could not allow that. I had to get to the Company. Before the web became too thick to cut through, I drew out Sting and slashed it! Then I renewed stamping and singing. _'Attercop, attercop'_ , I teased! I went as far from the web as I dared, and the spiders all followed me, scurrying their way over, their eyes rolling and their mouths frothing. While they came running, I took off in the other direction, back to the Company.

“You recall they were all strung up on a tree branch? Well, to get up there, I had to think like the spiders. I grabbed one of the sticky strings they left lying about, and I climbed up it to where the dwarves were all fastened. Imagine my surprise when I finally pull myself, huffing and puffing, onto the branch, and I see an old fat spider waiting for me! Its back was to me, and it was toying with the strings wrapped around Bombur. It wanted to start the meal without its brothers! I let it join its other brothers, that is, the dead ones, and I stuck it with my sword. It fell to the forest floor with a _whump_.

“It was then that I realized I could not do the same to the dwarves. I could not just cut them down, or they would also go tumble-thump with a whump down to the hard ground! I got closer to the first dwarf, shimmying and sliding my way along the branch, making all the Company bounce and dangle like too-ripe apples in the fall. I solved my problem by dragging the dwarves, with great difficulty, I might add, up onto the branch with me and only cutting a few of the strings, around the middle. After I sawed all that mess on the first dwarf, I saw that it was your sister-son, Fíli. He was quite woozy from all the spider poison, but still managed to get the rest of the webs off and clamber onto the branch along with me.

“ _‘Come help me with this, Fíli,’_ I whispered. _‘We must escape!’_ He just grunted and spent a few seconds trying to get spiderwebs out of his eyebrows. He must have decided that it was no use, because he quit trying after a bit and helped me drag the rest of the Company up. With his help, we got Kíli, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, and Nori. (The rest stayed on the branch to help with the cutting down. Poor old Bombur just rolled right off the branch and laid on the ground, that is how tired the fellow was!) Now, it was excellent that we got that many down, but by then the spiders realized that I had run back to their nest. Just as we got Nori cut out, the beasts began to swarm up the tree!

“The whole time during this whole adventure, I had had my ring on. But I removed it when I rescued Fíli! So when the spiders all climbed up, they saw me at the top, waving Sting and slashing at ‘em. They all shouted in surprise, and swore to eat me and collect my bones. While they tuckered themselves out with all their shouting, I noticed that some of the other beasts were on the forest floor. They were about to go after Bombur, who was lying defenseless in his pile of leaves! I leapt down from the tree, and rolled into the midst of the spiders.

“And Thorin! It might be that I won’t ever need your sword lessons. I slashed and stabbed and leapt and ducked, and wove in and out of a forest of hairy spider legs, hacking at them as I went. I don’t know where it all came from! Likely from good old Bullroarer, or maybe my mother. Anyway, I killed six or seven of ‘em, I think.

“While all this was happening, above me, the Company was busy cutting everyone else free. After I killed that handful of spiders, I called up to them, _‘Come down! Come down!’_ Some leapt, some climbed, and some simply fell off. Either way, we were all on the forest floor. This did not do us much good, however. The Company was all in a shaky heap, and I was tiring out, waving my little sword around. Above us tens and hundreds of spiders looked down, their eyes glittering.

“Despite their weakness, your Company quickly armed and prepared to defend themselves. Balin, Fíli, Kíli, Nori, and Bifur all had a knife or two on them. Dori, Dwalin, and Ori grabbed sticks to whack at the spiders with. Bombur was still too weak to do much of anything. Everyone else grabbed armfuls of stones to throw. And I had Sting. We killed dozens of spiders, but wave after wave of them kept coming! I saw that the battle could not go on like this.

“Much as I was loath to tell, I turned and told the Company about my secret ring. I told them that I was going to disappear, and lead off the spiders.”

“You were going to sing and caper about again?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “Yes, and I want no teasing! It worked, did it not? Anyway, I told them I was going to disappear, and said that they should run off in the opposite direction of where I was leading the spiders. None of them quite understood what I was talking about, but I cannot blame them! They were dizzy, and fighting, and dwarves probably have a bit of trouble hearing a high hobbit voice over the din of battle. I tried and tried to repeat my instructions, but eventually I just had to execute my plan. I put on my ring, and ran off.

“I performed a reprise of my Attercop song—”

“And how did that one go?”

“Hush! And I ran off, away from where we found the last elf-fires. I sang and slashed, and had to double back at times, because the Company could not properly defend themselves. But eventually they made their way to the elven clearing while I protected their backs. It took a long, long, long time! Hours, it felt like. Eventually, quite suddenly, all the spiders just gave up, and they scurried on back to their webs.

“We lay in the clearing for a while, huffing and puffing and trying to regain our breath. That did not take long, and as soon as they could say a word, every dwarf began to pester me with questions. How did I find them? How did I know how to fight the spiders? How did you write that delightful song so quickly?— That was Ori. In particular, most of them wanted to know about my ring and my disappearing.”

“That is what I am curious about,” whispered Thorin. “What ring?”

Then Bilbo remembered Thorin had not heard the tale yet! He told the whole story of Gollum’s cave (complete with all the riddles— the hobbit wanted to show off a bit). The dwarf-lord was even more impressed than he had been with the little hobbit in front of him. "That is an even better tale! A braver hobbit has never lived." Thorin continued smiling. "You are ever surprising me, it seems! You are a clever one."

“Yes, well…” Bilbo shrugged. “Anyway, the Company was all very impressed. They praised me and patted my back for a while, and some of the Company fell asleep, but then Dwalin noticed something that none of us had noted earlier.”

“What was that?”

“You were not there!”

“O!”

“Quite a fuss was kicked up, we were all dreadfully worried, but there was nothing any of us could do. We decided that there was no finding you until we had some water and some food in our bellies. So we took a vote, and myself, Balin, Dori, Ori, Bofur, Bombur, Fíli, and Glóin were in the majority, and we decided that the path lay to our left. We had no sense of actual direction— there is no sun to be seen in most of this forest, after all! We staggered along, and it was not long until on all sides, a whole score of red torches flared up. Out from the trees leapt a troupe of Wood-elves, armed to the teeth!

“Well, none of us were in any state to fight. All of the Company simply sat down and waited to see what would happen.”

“Even you, Bilbo? After this tale, I would not think you one to give up like that.”

“Well, I was tired,” Bilbo said. But then he laughed, and said, “But I am jesting. You know me increasingly well, Thorin. As the elves began to count how many of us there were, I slid on my ring. They never noticed me. They bound all the dwarves, and made them walk single-file through the woods, until we came to the magical doors of the Elvenking’s halls. I had to move quickly to get inside before they slammed!

“And that is most of the tale,” concluded Bilbo. “Since the Company was imprisoned, I have been sneaking about in these halls, stealing information and food wherever I can find it. Everything has been terribly boring and stressful. I had almost given up hope myself, the hope that you were alive, until I quite by accident wandered down here.”

“That may well be the happiest accident that has happened during this whole quest. Perhaps my whole one hundred and ninety-five years!”

"More of your compliments, Master Oakenshield?"

"Of course,” said the dwarf. “But have you ever stopped to think, Bilbo, that I am paying you so much kindness for want of something?"

"Want of what, Thorin?"

"I called you clever. I was wondering, or well, first, may I ask how long we have been in here? I have lost count of the days."

Bilbo shrugged helplessly, though Thorin could not have seen it. He had the ring on, after all. "I have come upon the same problem. It has hard to keep track when you cannot see the sun. I would guess less than one Moon."

"Well then! That brings me upon my question. Or less of a question, and more of a statement. Surely the most respectable Master Baggins, of Bag-End, may the hair on his feet ever grow, will have found a way out of this prison by now!"

"Well, you are not completely wrong," said Bilbo. "I have not found a way out. I have found several.”

“That is excellent news!”

“It would be, Master Dwarf, if we could actually get out those ways. There is, of course, the front door. It is heavily guarded, and very quickly slammed shut after it is opened. There are a few side entrances, all of these closely guarded as well. I was almost caught when snooping about one of them!”

“Do not get yourself caught!” whispered Thorin harshly. “You are likely our only means of escape, unless I ransom myself.”

“Ransom yourself!” hissed Bilbo. “No, Thorin, do not. You are our leader! How could you suggest leaving yourself here! Promise me you won’t!”

Thorin looked a little stunned at that. “I was not actually considering, now that you have found me. I promise, Bilbo.”

“Good,” sniffed Bilbo. He reached out, and uncurled Thorin’s hand from where it was wrapped around his prison bars. He held it tightly, and bravely said, “I refuse to take one step closer to the Lonely Mountain unless you are by my side.”

“I believe it,” Thorin said softly. It was not his harsh whispers of their conversation before that moment, nor was it a gruff statement said quietly. It was something altogether different, something gentler. Something Bilbo had only heard a few times from the dwarf-lord. “And I refuse to offer myself as ransom until Mr. Invisible Baggins gives up on finding a way out. And you will not,” he continued. “ever give up. You are one of the bravest creatures I have known. I was very wrong with my previous judgements of you, Bilbo.”

“I am glad you think so,” said Bilbo, matching Thorin’s tone. For a while, the two just stood there, their hands linked. Bilbo watched Thorin’s lined face lose some of its lines as the dwarf relax. Thorin could not see Bilbo, but he took comfort in the touch and the steady breathing of the hobbit. It was pleasant, but Bilbo had to remember that Thorin was in prison and he himself was essentially a fugitive in those stone halls. Eventually, he said, “Thorin, I have been here for quite some time. Shall I go and tell the Company that you live? I cannot stay in one place for too long, you see.”

Thorin said something low under his breath, and then straightened up, lifting his head from where it was leaning against the bars. He lifted one hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind his ear, but kept the other entwined with Bilbo’s.

“Of course,” he whispered. “Just a bit longer, though? I have something I would like to say to you before you leave.”

“Ask me anything, O King,” said Bilbo.

“This is what I meant to ask of you that night by the watchfire,” Thorin explained. “It is a question, but also a bit like a promise.” The dwarf stopped himself.

Bilbo ran his thumb along Thorin’s hand, in what he hoped was an encouraging gesture. “If it is within my means,” the hobbit said. “I will promise you anything.”

Thorin smiled, but soon grimaced. “We usually have more ceremony for this sort of thing. Especially for a dwarf of Durin’s line! But I am an exiled dwarf, despite my lineage, so I will put it very simply. Would that I could do this the way you deserve, Bilbo Baggins! I could smith and craft and make you a fine gift. I would braid my beads and colors into your hair, and I would pay for you to receive my line’s scars and tattoos. I would dress you in softest velvets, and the warmest furs. All would look upon you and know that you were well cared for, and you would receive the respect due to dwarvish royalty. I could not get you the standard gift of sturdy boots, of course. You do not like covering your already sturdy feet! Perhaps something different? Whatever you would like. I shall have to ask Balin to put it into writing soon as we reclaim the mountain. And I…” the dwarf trailed off. He looked off into the distance, trying to put what he was thinking into words. Thorin did not falter, but whatever he wished to say, it was giving him trouble. It was something he had never asked of anyone.

“Put it very simply, as you said, Thorin,” said Bilbo, softly, gently, and with a warm feeling swelling in his heart, as he thought he had an idea of what the old dwarf was trying to say.

Thorin nodded decisively. “Bilbo, once I reclaim my mountain… When we reclaim it… I—" He stopped himself again, then shook his head. "I apologize, Bilbo. I know what I want to say, and how, but I am just not sure when is the right time to say it. Perhaps not now.”

Bilbo did not say anything. He was glad that he had his ring on, so Thorin could not see his face crumple. He tightened his hold on Thorin’s hand, and then let go. Thorin opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but before the dwarf could speak, Bilbo quickly said, “Now, I really must go, Thorin. Is there any message you would like me to deliver to the Company?”

 

* * *

 

The hobbit knew it was not a good idea, but he planted himself in front of Thorin’s bars nonetheless. The dwarf heard the whump and the little breath of air Bilbo let out as he settled himself down, and he approached his cell door slowly.

“My dear Burglar,” he whispered. “Is that you, or am I going mad?”

Bilbo considered not answering. Eventually he said, “I am here.”

“Have you found a way out?”

“No.” A pause. “I haven’t.”

Thorin hesitated, then, “How fares the Company?”

“Alive,” Bilbo said. “And very cross that I haven’t found a way out yet.”

“Cross? Why, you’ve only had three— four? days!”

“They _expect_ things of me now,” Bilbo said miserably. “As do you, no doubt. I have had little to eat, and even less time to sleep, and I feel as if I’m about to keel over. I feel wretched.”

Thorin did not know what to say. Of course, he had experienced what Bilbo was going through in the elven king’s halls. Now, he had done none of it in the presence of an elf, but he knew the feeling of an empty belly. An empty belly, that had been empty, and would stay empty for a while. He knew what it was like to be so tired from working and thinking all through the day and the night. When the exiled dwarves of the Lonely Mountain wandered Middle-earth, looking for a new home, Thorin and his people were well acquainted with struggling with hunger and weariness. The dwarf did not say this, however. He wanted Bilbo to feel a bit less awful, and he did not think sharing his troubles with the hobbit would make anyone feel better (or perhaps he just wished to leave his past where it belonged— in the past. Perhaps he did not want to think of his life as a beggar, when he was so close to being King). So, instead, he said,

“You could sleep here, for a bit. You could have some of my food. I’ll keep watch, so you do not get caught.”

Bilbo considered a moment, then he said: “No. No, I must find us a way out. I’ve been here far too long, besides. I’ll sleep once you all are free.”

Thorin heard a rustle, and the creak and groan of Bilbo’s joints as the hobbit stood up. But the dwarf-lord did not want Bilbo to leave.

“Will you eat, also, once we are free?”

Bilbo sighed, and though Thorin could not see him, he figured the hobbit was giving him a thoroughly exasperated look. “If you are offering me your food again, Thorin, your night meal won’t be delivered for a few more hours. It would be easier for me to go nab something off a passing cart, rather than waiting here with you.”

“You could sleep while you wait, and I will keep watch for you, as I said.”

“In the open?”

“You are invisible,” Thorin pointed out. He sat down, across from where he figured Bilbo was. “No one would know you were there but me, unless you snore.”

“I do not snore,” said Bilbo.

“So then, it makes sense that you should sleep.”

Bilbo huffed and though none could see it, or perhaps because of that, gave Thorin a very dark look. “O, fine. But you must wake me— before the guard brings your food.”

Thorin heard Bilbo settle back down, and he felt, rather than saw, the hobbit’s hand wrap around his.

“Squeeze my hand if you hear footsteps approaching.”

It was strange, to feel and not see Bilbo, but of course, not wholly unpleasant. After a while, Thorin noted that Bilbo’s breathing had not slowed down, nor had he loosened the grip of his hand.

“You cannot sleep,” he said quietly.

“It is hard,” Bilbo admitted softly. “I am under a great deal of pressure, and I cannot relax.”

“If you could have any meal at this moment,” the dwarf said suddenly. “What would you want to eat?”

Bilbo huffed out a sharp breath— a quiet laugh. “What a strange question! What is this meant to do?”

“Food helps you relax, and find your calm,” Thorin explained. Bilbo nodded, glad the dwarf could not see his smile. He paid attention to what Bilbo said, and he valued it, and he remembered it. Bilbo had mentioned it once, perhaps in the Eyrie, or in the forest, or even at Beorn’s. He could not recall! But it did not matter, because whenever it happened, Thorin tucked away that small fact about him, and was thinking about it. Even a small return of the feelings the hobbit felt— even if they were not to the same degree— made his stomach twinge and heat up: not unpleasantly. “A very hobbit-ish trait, and not a bad one! Now, what would you eat, right now?”

“Something warm,” the hobbit said. He rubbed Thorin’s knuckles thoughtfully. “My favorite meal is breakfast, you know. If I could make any meal in the world, it would be some bacon, and some eggs. And toast, with butter and jam.”

“How do you like your eggs? And what sort of jam?”

“O, I like them fried, just like you do, I assume, since that is what you demanded of me for breakfast the night we met. As for jam, perhaps blackberry or raspberry.”

“That sounds very appealing. And then perhaps after that, a hot bath.”

“That would be lovely.” Bilbo sighed. “And I would have clean clothes, and a comb for my feet.”

Unlike the serious conversations they had been having at Thorin’s cell, this one was rather carefree. The situation they were in was dire, or soon would be, but the hobbit was definitely in need of a break from his constant sneaking and plotting he was doing in the Elvenking’s halls. Thorin was happy to give it to him.

The two of them spoke of many things, but overwhelmingly, they spoke of home. Thorin longed for his home just as much, if not more than, as Bilbo did. They spoke of soft carpet underfoot, and hardwood floors polished to a shine, but they also spoke of mountain stone, warmed by thousands of bodies and great forges. Bilbo brought to mind his many closets and coats and buttons, and Thorin mentioned silk and golden thread and his grandfather’s robes of state.

Mostly though, the dwarf was content to hear Bilbo speak.

That evening, Thorin learned (perhaps more than he wanted to) about the Shire and its ways. He heard of large and criss-crossed family trees. He listened, amazed, to the strange tradition of giving things away on your birthday. He learned what a mathom was, and questioned Bilbo quite thoroughly as to why his race valued useless objects such as they so highly. He imagined the great Party Tree, increased in size in his mind by how fondly and vividly Bilbo described it. Rather than bringing up the Lonely Mountain’s vast chambers used for celebrations, festivals, and dances of all kinds, he simply wondered what it would be like to rest in the Party Tree’s shade on a quiet afternoon.

After a while, Bilbo did drop off and fall asleep. Thorin was pleased that his plan had worked, but he almost wished that it hadn’t. He would have listened to the hobbit talk for hours, if he could.

 

* * *

 

“Upon my word!” cried Thorin, when Bilbo whispered for him to come out and join the rest of the Company. “Never again will I doubt the nimble mind of our Burglar!” The dwarf slung an arm across Bilbo’s narrow shoulders, and asked what they were to do next. (Bilbo noted that no one in the Company looked surprised at so much contact. Bilbo hoped Balin saw the black look he shot him— the old gossip!)

Once Bilbo explained his escape plan, Thorin (and the rest of the Company) was much less enthused about the entire thing. After a thorough tongue-lashing by the hobbit, however, they were all rather cowed. They looked down at their booted feet and shuffled along as Bilbo led them down to the wine cellar.

It took some time to find them, but eventually Bilbo and the dwarves found thirteen decent barrels to hide themselves in. The hobbit scurried back and forth, cramming dwarves into barrels, (as was the case with Bombur), or fussing about stuffing barrels with straw to ensure the small dwarf inside would not bump his head, (as was the case with Kíli).

Eventually, all the dwarves but Thorin and Balin were stowed relatively safely in their barrels. Balin was still in the doorway keeping watch, so Bilbo went about getting Thorin inside his barrel. It was proving to be very difficult.

“Thorin!” hissed Bilbo. “Come now, everyone else has gotten into their barrels without too much trouble. And you won’t be in there too long! O, please won’t you get inside!”

The dwarf twisted around and pushed at the sides of the barrel. “I don’t like this,” he said. He turned around again and let out a rough growl, and another, “I do not like this at all.”

“Tough! I am breaking you out of prison, and well, _boo-hoo_ if it is not comfortable enough for you! Settle down in there and let me seal this!”

Thorin twisted about once more, then finally settled down. He took off his blue hood, and folded it in his lap. “Do as you will, Master Baggins.”

“Don’t _‘Master Baggins’_ me, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo shoved straw and other soft things into the barrel to cushion the dwarf. “Won’t you calm down?”

“I am very calm. I’ve sat down, haven’t I?”

“Ugh!” Bilbo tugged on Thorin’s ear, and flicked at the heavy cuff on its shell.

“You did not put up such a fuss when the others of the Company grumbled and tossed and turned," Thorin groused. "And they were certainly less kind than I have been.”

“Yes, well, I am not…  we do not have the same, er, relationship as with the rest of the Company.” Bilbo grimaced at his words and added one last armful of straw, grabbing the lid to Thorin’s barrel. Before he sealed the barrel, he cupped the side of Thorin's face. He ran a thumb over a scar on his cheek, and said, "You'll be alright." Thorin seemed to forget his discomfort and anger for a short second, and he looked up at Bilbo with gentleness in his eyes. Bilbo dropped his hands, smiled, and then dropped the lid onto the barrel with a satisfying _thunk!_

“Not a word,” said the hobbit to Balin, who had been watching the whole thing. The dwarf, for once, just smiled at Bilbo, and clambered into his barrel.

 

* * *

 

As soon as night fell, Bilbo hobbled his back into the river, back to the barrels which were still lashed together and bobbing in the current. He pulled Sting out and sawed off the cords that lashed the barrels together. He wrapped his little arms around the one closest to him, and with some effort, heaved it onto its side. A loud groan came from the barrel, and the hobbit fought the urge to cheer. Whoever was inside, they were not dead! His plan worked! He pried off the lid as quick as he could, his fingers a little shaky and clammy because of the chill that descended as night fell. Once the lid was tossed to the side, a rather haggard and altogether miserable looking dwarf crawled his way out.

“Thorin!” cried Bilbo, as that was who the dwarf was. He fell into the water, and with shaking arms reached out towards Bilbo. Bilbo stuck out his hand, and Thorin, after grasping blindly for a while, finally got a hold of the hobbit. With difficulty, Bilbo pulled the dwarf up onto his feet. Once Thorin was relatively steady on his feet, Bilbo cupped his face as he had in the wine cellar of the Elven King. But this time Thorin had no gentle gaze. He was not happy, not at all. He brushed away Bilbo’s hands with one strong swipe.

“Bilbo,” said the dwarf, spitting the name out of his mouth. And then he did actually spit, retching into the water. Once Thorin was done with that, he pushed off and slapped away Bilbo’s hands and his efforts to help him, and moved forward. The dwarf slogged and struggled his way through the river and finally collapsed with a groan onto the shore. He lay there for quite some time, motionless. Every little movement made him ache all the more, so he remained in his sprawled and inelegant position.

It was to a chorus of winces and groans that Bilbo took stock of Thorin’s appearance. He looked horrible. His face was mottled with fresh bruises and little cuts, as likely was the rest of his body. His hair was drenched and tangled, the braids becoming unraveled, the beads that usually decorated him were barely hanging on by a few strands. His draggled beard had bits of straw poking out. Bilbo knew Thorin really was feeling terrible because he did not even _attempt_ to pluck the pieces out. Yes, the dwarf looked awful. If Bilbo was to be honest, he only ever recognized the dwarf that night because of his gold chains and his sky blue hood— which was looking quite dirty and tattered. The beautiful silver tassels were simply ruined. Thorin had one less meal in his belly than Bilbo, and he had a look in his eyes that made him resemble a mangy street cat. 'Or perhaps a Bracegirdle who missed their supper', thought Bilbo. Both were equally savage, after all.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo. “Thorin!”

Either the dwarf could not hear Bilbo over his groans and the distraction of his pain, or he was just ignoring the poor drenched little fellow, since it was because of him he was so banged up. At any rate, the dwarf only raised his head from the ground when Bilbo’s nose trumpeted out an extraordinarily loud sneeze. I would guess that he only looked up to see what sort of creature made that loud a noise!

When Bilbo saw that Thorin was finally responding, he said his name once more in an especially loud, “THORIN!”

“What?” asked Thorin finally. “What, you impossible hobbit?”

“You,” said Bilbo, scrubbing his hand beneath his nose. He pointed the finger not mopping up snot at Thorin, in a rather accusatory gesture. “Need to stop ignoring me! And quit being so rude! Are you out of prison, or not? Are you dead, or not?”

Thorin grumbled something under his breath in the secret language of the dwarves, but he did not respond.

Bilbo did not appreciate that, not one bit. “If you want to waste away on this river bank, well that is your business! If you do not want to eat dinner, or if you do not want to go get your mountain— which is, by the way, RIGHT THERE! You can see it!— then that is alright. But I know you, O King Under the Extremely Close Mountain, and you will get up. Or else I may box your ears!”

“Save me from the tiny fists of irascible hobbits,” Thorin muttered.

“I won’t do with teasing,” said Bilbo. “Get up! Acting like a dwarfling, you are!”

Thorin took that a touch personally. With the hobbit’s statement, he finally pulled himself off of the ground. He did so quite slowly, however, and with a terribly loud groan. Once he was on his feet, his back hunched, the dwarf began to hobble off in the direction Bilbo had just come back from, towards the torchlight of the town floating on the lake.

“Where do you believe you are going?” asked Bilbo. “Get back here!”

“Food,” the dwarf said shortly.

“Without your Company?” Thorin kept shuffling along, and Bilbo marched right up to him and tugged on one of his more intact braids, a bit harder than was necessary. “Thorin, we have to get them out while the barrels are still here, and not further down in the Long Lake. The faster we do this, the sooner we can get food and dry clothes and warm bed. Come on!”

Thorin saw the sense in this, and with a few more tugs on his braid, and a jab into his side when he tried to sit down again, Bilbo managed to lead the dwarf back to the banks of the river and the Company, still in their barrels.

 

* * *

 

The Company was all on the shore, more than half of them just laying there and being miserable. Dori, Nori, Ori, Óin, and Glóin were all so waterlogged and bruised that they could hardly move. Poor old Bombur! He was passed out, sleeping off his horrid adventure down the river.

Bilbo had stopped helping the dwarves out after he helped Balin out, and the old dwarf snapped at him. All he did was help, and none of them appreciated it! They just complained about sore backsides and bruises and cuts. The hobbit was quite miserable as well, but at least he did not go around yelling at people who were only trying to help him. He led Balin onto the shore and immediately made a beeline away from him, to one of the wide tree stumps that were dotted throughout the forest that marched up to the banks of the river.

There he sat, and stared down at his wooly toes for what felt like hours. He hummed quietly to himself to drown out the noise of dwarves splashing around and cursing. That helped the hobbit calm down a lot, singing the songs of his people, immersed in his own thoughts.

Bilbo was in the middle of a silly chant about a lonely troll when a very large and still wet dwarf settled himself down next to him on the stump. Before Bilbo could say anything too biting, the dwarf said quietly,

“It was not warranted for me to be so rude. Or, it was not, but I only see that now that I am slightly dryer and not as sore. I should not have been so cross with you, Bilbo. Yours was the best plan for escape, and I should be thankful.”

“Yes, well…” Bilbo trailed off. “It is no matter, Thorin. I would have been cross too, if I was as roughed up as you are.”

“Still, I ask your forgiveness.” Thorin for Bilbo’s hand in the failing light of the Sun.

“I forgive you,” said Bilbo. He completed the movement, reaching for Thorin’s hand and tangled their fingers together. “And here is a promise, since you did not let me make mine when we were speaking in the prison: if ever we get captured again, I will be sure to make our escape much gentler on you.”

“I would hope to not ever be captured after our plight in the forest! I would not have anyone in this Company suffering so again," said Thorin. “And Bilbo, regarding your promise. I would prefer if you not use your it for potential escape plans. Rather, I was thinking about it while helping the rest of the Company out of the water, while I was calming down a bit, and I want to pose the question I was about to ask you in the Elvenking’s cell. I believe it is the time, now, after such a great success.”

“No,” said Bilbo. He did not want to be let down again. “Tell me later, once we are in Laketown. I’ll be more likely to promise agreeably with some dry clothes on my back and warm food in my belly. Come, we should tell the Company to start moving.”

“Bilbo, come, I wi—”

But the hobbit was already striding into the midst of the most draggled, wet, and miserable groups of dwarves you could ever imagine. Thorin followed after him, his step heavy.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's journey continues. Lake-town, lots of lazy dwarves, and an unnecessary amount of gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all for the positive response!!! I was a little nervous about posting this, and I see now that I had no reason to be. I've been reading over the comments to this piece and non-stop smiling for the past week. The Hobbit fandom truly is a wonderful place to be.  
> This is where the relationship truly branches off from book canon, so please bear with me.

The time spent in Lake-town was a good experience for everyone in the Company except for Bilbo.

You would think the fellow had a pleasant time, as the folk of Lake-town offered the Company everything a hobbit could desire. Food, drink, and song were all present in ample amounts, and there was a great deal of good cheer, even in the darkest, dingiest corner of the place. There were fresh sets of clothes, thick blankets, and warm beds. The Company had an entire house to themselves, and a whole town of people willing to help them and cater to their every need.

But most of you will be able to agree that when you are feeling sick, no matter how luxurious and comfortable your surroundings are, you are going to be miserable. So, while all the dwarves ate, drank, and recovered rather quickly from their trip down the river, the hobbit remained in his little ground-floor room, feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. He had a cold, the mountain was close, and there was still the dragon he was going to have to deal with. In his bed, propped up with several plush pillows, covered in furs and woolen blankets, his arms crossed and a cup of strong tea clutched in a slightly shaky hand, Bilbo held court over a group of apologetic dwarves.

Now that they were not wet, cold, and starving, the Company, not just Thorin, had much good feeling towards Bilbo. With the Mountain so close and everyone around them in such good spirits, the Company managed to put their uncomfortable journey behind them. In fact, most of them thought that in the end, Bilbo had the right idea. How else would they have gotten out of the Elvenking’s prison? What were a few bruises and scratches compared to freedom? So the dwarves, instead of calling Bilbo names underneath their breath and excluding him from conversation as they had been doing, were suddenly patting him on the back and drinking to his health. They all kicked up a great fuss about Bilbo being treated for his terrible cold, and all hours of the day there was at least one dwarf at his side, making sure all his needs were catered to.

Bilbo would have felt more kindly towards all of them if they had tried not to act so _well_. Their bruises were fading, and they were regaining the weight they lost during their starvation in Mirkwood. They received new clothes in their proper colors (even Thorin had his beautiful hood remade), and all the dwarves trimmed and oiled their hair and beards. Bilbo, meanwhile, remained with his sunken cheeks and cold sweats in clothing that was meant for a much larger child of Man.

“At least you will be able to fit into the keyhole, now,” said Thorin, with a smile, as if that was supposed to be a comfort.

In response, Bilbo took a long sip of his too strong tea, saying in his clogged voice, "Stop bringing that up. You should not tease a sick hobbit. Bad luck."

Thorin was in an extraordinarily good mood the whole time the Company remained in Lake-town— a full fortnight, and then some. When he was strolling around the house the Master had given the Company, he walked with a swagger in his step, as if he were already the King of his reclaimed Mountain, as if he were one of the famous dwarf-lords of old, rather than an exile in a little town nearly a full week’s walk (they did not have ponies or boats just yet) away from a mountain ruled over by a cruel dragon. He smiled out the windows of the house and greeted the citizens of Lake-town, waving as they sung songs about his return. He sat regally in his rickety wooden seat in the boat the Master lent to the Company to get around town in, kingly despite the shabby state of the town around him. When he was presiding over the celebrations the Master held in his wooden halls, he spoke with a booming voice, and he drank and sang more than anyone else in the Company.

And in private, he was more gentle and kind than he had been at any other time during the quest. If he was not about retrieving supplies, greeting people, or participating in the numerous parties held during their stay, he was at the hobbit's bedside. After everything was settled, he was not constantly in the canals with the rest of the Company, singing songs and getting his fill of the September sun. After a few days, he no longer walked past the windows on purpose, just to hear cheers, as his nephews continued to do. Instead he was making sure the hobbit was never hungry, and that he always had a handkerchief to sneeze into. Bilbo still felt rotten, but it comforted him in that he could not think of how many years had past since someone handled him so gently, and so full of care. Even so, he still tried to act as if he were a bit cross with the dwarf.

"Having you around has brought me nothing but luck, Bilbo," said Thorin one day. "If not for you, I would be wasting away in a cell, cold and lonesome, with no hope to warm me. You have brought me to kingdom, and for that I will always be grateful."

"That is all true," said Bilbo. He blew his nose, and continued, "I have heard it all from the Company: I am a very magnificent hobbit. But you still did not apologize for teasing me about my weight."

"I am very sorry for that," Thorin said, though he did not sound very apologetic. He had, however, been very apologetic about many other things those past few days. When Thorin started talking, you often could not stop him. He was determined to make things up to Bilbo, and when the dwarf was set on a goal, he hardly ever quit. So when he started apologizing, he just kept thinking of more things to be sorry for. He was sorry for taking Bilbo’s hand in such a strange fashion in Bree, and sorry for not being more gentle on the mountain path, and sorry for not speaking on Bilbo's behalf that night on the cliff outside Goblin-town. And scores of little other things: sorry for accidentally elbowing your side that night in Mirkwood, sorry for knocking over your cup on Midsummer’s Eve, sorry for sending you into that clearing alone.

"And why did you take my hand in Bree like that?" Bilbo had asked, in the midst of one of these sessions. He was very pleased, and spoke with a smile— it was hard to be cross with an apologetic Thorin, much as he wanted to be a bit stern with him. It was something he had not often seen, so he was very pleased that it was just for him. A few minutes of speaking, and Bilbo was unable to chase his curling lips off, happy in spite of the way his little nose dribbled.

"You were small, and very adorable," Thorin replied. "I did not wish for you to get lost."

"I am not that much smaller than you, Thorin.” The hobbit’s brown skin hid any blush that might have crept up on his face. He could still feel the heat in his cheeks, though. He scolded himself in his mind. Why would any fifty— soon to be fifty-one year old— be pleased to be called adorable? Apparently himself! “You wished to protect me, then?"

"Yes, and how strangely our tables have turned! It seems you are the one who has been protecting yourself for much of this journey. You have saved us dwarves, as well."

"You should have employed me as a dwarf-wrangler, rather than Burglar."

"I think the title of Burglar still fits you quite well. You will most definitely prove yourself once we reach the Mountain, as you have always proved yourself. And anyway, dear Bilbo, you have managed to steal at least one thing so far."

"More than one thing, I should think," sniffed Bilbo. "A troll-hoard, a great deal of elvish lore, a magic ring, more than my share of honey from Beorn's stores, scores of information from those Mirkwood elves, clothes, AND thirteen whole dwarves. That's only off the top of my curly little head! I deserve a rise in pay!"

“Anything you like,” Thorin said. He felt a little put out, as he had meant to be very clever and say that the hobbit had stolen his heart, but he had lost his chance. It was true, of course. But maybe he could go a bit longer without saying it. And Bilbo was so clever that he had probably figured it out already. “Once you help me get back the Mountain, you shall have your fourteenth share, as well as many other things.”

“Like what?” asked Bilbo, leaning over, setting his now cool tea on the table next to his bed. Before he could rest his hand in his lap or beneath the blankets, Thorin held his open on the covers, in an open invitation. Bilbo placed his hand in the dwarf’s grasp, and relaxed into his pillows as Thorin ran his thumb over his knuckles. The dwarf made no comment on how clammy his hands were, for which Bilbo was grateful.

“Anything,” said Thorin.

“A mighty promise,” Bilbo replied. He smiled at the dwarf, and motioned him to come closer. Thorin brought the wooden chair he was sitting on as close to the bedside as he could manage. Then Bilbo patted the pillows next to him, and the dwarf leaned his head against them. Bilbo shifted so that he was lying down, instead of being propped up with an inordinate amount of pillows. “Who knows, I may steal your throne and all your jewels out from underneath you!”

“Is that how you plan to prove your Burglar status?” He laughed. “I should stop making such wild offers.”

“It makes me feel quite important, so go on and keep doing it, just for me. If it comforts you, Thorin, I will only ask for small things. Half your jewels, perhaps. And not the title of King, but maybe Lord, or Duke. I doubt that the Lonely Mountain has a Thain, so perhaps not that. I could be the mayor of your Mountain!”

“How do you like the title of King’s Consort?” asked Thorin, softly.

Bilbo started from his place in his little nest of pillows. Now, he had guessed that Thorin had been getting at the idea of courtship with all his talk of important promises and expensive gifts. And when he mentioned outsiders joining the Line of Durin. But he did not think the dwarf would act on his feelings— at least, not so soon. Bilbo had thought that he would have more time to think about the possibility (and the consequences!) of being involved in such a way with a dwarf-lord. A King! He looked at Thorin and marvelled at how calm he seemed.

"I…" Bilbo trailed off. He stopped and blew his nose, just so he did not have to say anything. He took his time doing it, and looked down at his and Thorin's entwined hands. If you looked at his face, you would think he was thinking rather hard about about something. But the hobbit's mind was in actuality rather blank. He did not want to think about anything in that moment.

"You do not have to give me an answer now," Thorin finally said. He sat up from where he had laid his head. "It is a large thing to dwell on, and I would give you time to make a decision."

Thorin then made like he was going to get up and leave, and Bilbo sat up, about to ask Thorin to stay. But he moved rather faster than he should have. This made his poor little head throb, and his throat itch terribly, what with his cold. He coughed spectacularly, and rather moistly, and winced as his head ached and beat his pulse in his ears.

Thorin sat back down quickly after that, his chair clattering and scraping across the floor.

"Breathe!" he cried.

"What else would I do?" Bilbo managed to say (quite irritably) in between his hacking. He tried to blink away the tears his coughs had brought into his eyes. "I'll be fine, Thorin." He sneezed, and cursed mildly under his breath. "Its just a cold, you see. You can leave, if you'd like. You were leaving."

"Do you want me to leave?"

Bilbo gave up and finally wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. He rubbed under his nose to get rid of the snot that insisted on dribbling out, and sniffed loudly. "No," he said eventually. He settled himself back down into his nest.

Thorin reached over, and brushed away the last of Bilbo's tears with the pad of his thumb. Instead of moving away from Bilbo's face, he kept his hand cupped around the hobbit's jaw, cradling it gently. His thumb ran over the bow of Bilbo's lips, and he smiled. Thorin traced the curve of that as well. His other hand smoothed Bilbo's tightly curled (and slightly sweaty) hair from his forehead. The hobbit enjoyed the cool weight of the dwarf's rings on his hot forehead. His fingers travelled down to tease the pointed tip of his ear.

Bilbo took the hand that Thorin was using to hold his jaw, and tangled their fingers together. He laid both of their hands over his slightly rattly chest. Neither of the two marvelled at how quickly the mood shifted. It just seemed like it was right. Thorin looked relieved that things were settled again.

"I've been curious about something," said Bilbo.

"Hm?" Thorin intoned. One look at the dwarf and you could tell that he was feeling very at peace. He was not smiling, not really, but his face was free from many of its care-lines, and the furrow between his brows that usually was present was gone. His eyes were slightly closed, but still all his attention was on Bilbo. Thorin had been acting as if he had already reclaimed his Mountain, and in Bilbo's little sick room, he acted like he already had his Consort Under the Mountain as well. It was a bit overwhelming, but Bilbo found he did not really mind.

"Why the handholding?" Bilbo asked. "Are hands especially precious to dwarves?"

"Almost," Thorin said. "Dwarves work with our hands. Almost all our crafts involve using our hands to smith, to carve, to mold. We value the things our hands make, as well as the hands themselves. I could perhaps compare it to the hobbitish interest in admiring and taking care of their feet."

"I have never seen other dwarves holding hands," Bilbo pointed out. “And hobbits do not rub their feet on one another. Or, at least, not regularly.”

"There is also the fact, Bilbo, that I love having you around. And I enjoy holding your hand."

Bilbo breathed out slowly, then sniffled rather harshly, to get the mucus back in his nose.

"I enjoy it too."

They both remained there, relishing in the silence and the contact with each other.

 

* * *

 

Thorin leaned forward in his wooden seat, looking from underneath his brows at the Master.

"Myself and my Company have to get to the Mountain. We will be leaving within the next week," he said.

The Master and his councilors stopped their smiling, their bobbing, and their good-natured offering of food and drink to the Company. They ceased doing anything, and they fixed their scared eyes on Thorin, who looked very smug and comfortable in his seat.

The Company, and the citizens of Lake-town, picked up on the mood at the high table. They gazed up at the Master and Thorin, who were staring down at one another. (Thorin looked very confident— the Master looked ready to faint).

The Man fumbled a bit, before putting on his most important-sounding voice, and saying, "Preparations will be made, O Thorin Thráin's son Thrór's son! You will reclaim your mountain; the hour is at hand for you to fulfill the songs my people sing. We shall have you straight upon your journey, and we will see your mountain returned. And, of course, our hospitality and aid will remain in your mind once you reclaim your birthright."

The crowd all clapped and cheered, and the good mood of the room returned. At least, it did for everyone except the Master and his statesmen. They still believed Thorin was not who he said, and they believed he and his crowd of dwarves were brigands, come to rob the mountain and then leave. This was almost true, of course, but Bilbo was the one burglaring, not the dwarves. And as you will soon see, it was not just thievery in the dark, but a great deal of riddling, running, and fire.

Anyway, once Thorin had said his piece, he went back to speaking with the dwarves, men, and the hobbit at his side.

He held Bilbo's hand underneath the table as he complimented the Men on their ale, and he moved it to slowly rub Bilbo's thigh as he spoke with his sister-sons about the exact date of their departure.

The whole time, Bilbo did his best to remain polite and coherent, what with his dizzy head and a broad, calloused hand getting rid of most of his sense with its warm path up and down his leg. He still managed, however, to have enough control of his wits to blow his nose into a handkerchief when necessary and say a slurred, "thag you very buch!" whenever he was asked to speak.

 

* * *

 

A cold and three whole days on a miserable boat, all the while underneath the glaring presence of the Lonely Mountain, did nothing to improve Bilbo’s mood. His cough was gone, but his head still spun when he moved too quickly, and his nose insisted on dripping. The rolling of the deck underneath his feet made things all the worse.

There were three boats total, each laden with food, blankets, clothes, and sturdy tents to keep the Company warm in the quickly cooling October weather. Ponies and horses were being led through the wild moors that ran up to the Mountain, and they would meet them at the location Thorin and the Master agreed on. Bilbo wished he were walking alongside one of the shaggy ponies, or even sitting astride one of them, rather than sitting and being rocked back and forth by the motions of the rowers as they made their way down the River Running. Bilbo wished he were with the ponies, if only to avoid the sight of Thorin’s proud shoulders and crossed arms as he stood at the prow of the ship, keeping his eyes on the Mountain. The dwarf would not even look at him, and Bilbo did not know why.

Once the good cheer and the celebrations of Lake-town were left behind, the Company all sobered up quickly. It was hard to believe that the Mountain could be reclaimed with the wild heath and lack of civilization surrounding them. The only one who remained somewhat motivated was Thorin, but rather than being elated with the prospect of his Mountain so close, he had become very serious. No longer was there a strong dwarf with gentle hands and a smile in his eyes, ready to give a kind word to a sick little hobbit. Rather, there was a dwarf-lord of old standing regally at the head of the ship, his eyes fixed on his conquest.

Bilbo was seated on one of the hard wooden benches that ran across the deck of the ship, squeezed in between Balin and Fíli. The boats were finally approaching the bend of the River Running, and those on the decks could see the group of Men and beasts gathered at the meeting point. Fíli was idly twisting the ends of his beard, which was finally getting longer than the uneven hanks that had been left after he had to cut spider webs out of it. The boats did not want to fight against the current of the river, and they rocked wildly as the rowers steered them into the banks. Balin patted Bilbo’s arm soothingly as the hobbit clutched at his stomach, groaning. After a minute or so of struggling, the boats finally beached, grinding against the sandy bottom.

Everyone then went about, getting themselves and the provisions off of the ships. The dwarves had a little trouble clambering off the boat, having to hike up their legs and heave themselves over the side. Bilbo was too small to even do that, so he busied himself on the deck, passing down supplies to the Company and the Men of Lake-town. Once everything was on the ground, Bilbo stood on the deck, hands on his hips. He was not sure how to get down. He looked out at the Company and the Men, hoping one of them would help him down. After a while, one of the long-armed Men noticed took pity on him and helped him down. Normally, he would be indignant at being treated like a child of the Big Folk, but sometimes it was necessary. Anything to get off the boat.

Bilbo thanked the Man, and walked over to where Thorin stood, overseeing the Company. They were pitching a tent, and loading supplies onto the ponies. All basic tasks, too basic for the important Thorin Oakenshield. The dwarf did not acknowledge Bilbo, however, not until he felt a clammy hand wrap around his.

He started, and looked down at Bilbo. “Hello,” he whispered. “I apologize, I’m a bit distracted.”

“I understand,” Bilbo replied, just as quietly. He understood what Thorin was getting at with his hushed tone. The quiet wastes around them, and the thought of the dragon so close made Bilbo want to not speak at all. And not think. About the dragon, that is. He swallowed thickly. “I think I do, at least.” He nodded at the peak of the Lonely Mountain lying ahead of him.

“I am close,” Thorin said roughly. “It has been a long time since I have seen home. We have much work ahead of us.”

“Yes…” Bilbo trailed off. “It is beautiful,” he offered.

“You do not have to lie,” said Thorin. “The dragon Smaug has ruined the beauty of the Mountain. Once it is mine, however, I will restore it to what it once was. I will have pines, and tall oaks, and green fields lining the Mountain’s skirts. There will be life inside, and outside, the Mountain.”

“I believe it,” Bilbo said softly.

 

* * *

 

The hobbit padded around camp restlessly, the rest of the Company laying about and watching the clouds drift past the Mountain. All the dwarves had lost all their spirit, even Thorin, who was laying down in his tent. Bilbo supposed there was only so long a time one could look at a mountain before getting tired of it. And there was the fact that none of them actually knew how to get inside. That could dishearten anyone.

Except him, it seemed.

It was strange, considering how uncomfortable Bilbo felt under the heavy gaze of the Lonely Mountain. But in spite of himself, after spending so much time being sick and feeling a great deal of self-pity, in the shadow of the Mountain, Bilbo finally began to regain his strength. He cast off his layers of blankets and took to wandering around the wastes on the Western side of the Mountain, looking for some sign of the hidden door. Occasionally, he would hook his arm through Balin’s and drag him off to go exploring as well. Balin did not mind so much, as the Lonely Mountain was his home as much as it was Thorin’s, but eventually he became as listless as the rest of the Company.

There was not much to look at, however, around the skirts of the Mountain. The ground was rocky, everything was dead, and Bilbo did not dare to go up onto the slopes by himself. So, he resolved to explore the slopes through much safer means: a map. The only map, of course, of the Mountain that Bilbo had any access to was Thrór’s Map. And to get a good look at it, he would have to speak with Thorin.

It was hard to speak with Thorin, now that the Company was so close. He acted strange, and denied companionship. He would walk under the heavy flap of his tent and sit for hours, not coming out unless it was for food.

The hobbit did not know exactly why Thorin was acting the way he did. The dwarf was not the type to get very nervous, or doubt himself. Once he was really set upon a goal, it took a great deal of opposing force to stop him. This explains, of course, why he pursued his homeland relentlessly, despite a dragon being in the way. This dedication applied to whatever Thorin was dwelling on in his tent.

The one time the hobbit attempted to speak with the dwarf-lord, Thorin shrugged off the hand placed on his shoulder. He said his business would not be understood by simple Shire folk. He said a halfling would not recognize the importance of it. He would not let the hobbit inside his tent.

“All you’re doing is sitting around, you great lump,” snapped Bilbo. “I saw it!”

Bilbo, of course, knew that he was not nobly-born, despite his high standing in the Shire, and he was most definitely not a dwarf. But even so, Bilbo knew how very close the two of them had gotten over the course of the journey. Since that night in the Eagle’s Eyrie, the dwarf had never denied Bilbo’s company. And the way he brushed off Bilbo’s companionship was reminiscent of the beginnings of the quest.

Thorin certainly had a temper that ran hot, but Bilbo was lucky in that he was usually spared from it. He wondered what was bothering the dwarf so much to make him lash out at those he held close, but also was not really curious enough to go find out. He did not much appreciate being called a halfling, after all this time, and also, he hated to be the one to move first. Bagginses are set in their ways, and very stubborn. He did not wish to ask for an apology: he wanted to receive one of Thorin’s own will. Bilbo did not actively seek out the dwarf until his curiosity got the better of him, and he absolutely needed to see the map.

And because he was half-Took, of course that time came. So, one day, he slipped quietly into Thorin’s tent, and said, “I would like to see your grandfather’s map.”

Thorin showed more life than he had in the past three days when he jolted from his place on his bedroll.

“Bilbo,” he greeted the hobbit casually, as if he had not just jumped nearly a foot in the air. Hobbits could sneak around quite well, as you surely remember. Thorin had not even heard him approach. “Why?”

“I think we need to figure how we are to get inside your Mountain,” the hobbit replied. “I would like to look at the map and see if there is anything we may have missed.”

“What could you find on it?” Thorin asked. “You cannot read dwarvish runes, nor can you see the moon runes.”

“You are right, O Thorin Thráin’s son,” Bilbo said. “I am a _halfling_ , as you have pointed out before. I just believed that someone should take this quest seriously, now that we are finally at your Mountain. Someone needs to lead, since you insist on sitting by yourself, muttering about who knows what, all hours of the day. But perhaps I will not do that. Perhaps I will not attempt to lead you lot. Perhaps, instead of trying to complete my assigned duties, I will go explore the Western slopes and break my neck, just so I can have the opportunity to stop bothering with the stubbornness of dwarves, but one dwarf, you, in particular.”

Thorin sighed. “Bilbo, am I right in the assumption that you wish for me to apologize for calling you a halfling?"

"You have not attempted to apologize," Bilbo pointed out. “And it was quite rude.”

"Haven't I tried?"

"No, you have not left your tent in ages!"

“Is that right?” Thorin asked. Bilbo nodded. “I suppose I have lost my heart, in the shadow of the Mountain. It is home, but it also holds a dragon inside, if we are to believe yours and Balin’s reports on steam coming from the Front Gate. I must find my grandfather’s door by Durin’s Day, but it seems I, and the rest of the Company, cannot find the spirit to get up and look.”

“Yes, that is my way of thinking,” Bilbo said. “Which is why I decided to finally talk to you. I would very much like a look at that map, Thorin.” He left off a last biting comment, _‘If you would quit your yammering on!’_

Thorin breathed out a soft, “Ah!” and finally stood up from his bedroll. He walked towards Bilbo, but did not meet the hobbit’s eyes as he stuck his hand inside the heavy material of his coat (gifted from the Men of Lake-town). He looked down at his iron-shod feet until he found what he was looking for.

The dwarf lifted his head, smiling slightly under the tangle of his beard. In his hand was a neatly folded map. He held it out for Bilbo to take, but then brought it back to his chest, just as the hobbit was reaching for it.

“Before I give it to you,” Thorin said. “I would make that apology for my harsh words to you. And I thank you, for making me stop dwelling on such deep thoughts for a bit of time. You are a breath of cool air for me, in the busy forge that my mind has become. Now, before you say anything, Bilbo, as I know you will; allow me to speak, doubtless though I am delivering one of my dreaded speeches, as you call them.” He nodded his head at Bilbo, deigning to let him speak, at least for a brief while.

“Get on with it, then,” Bilbo sniffed.

Thorin cleared his throat importantly, then began: “You are as much a part of this quest as I am, Bilbo Baggins. I would take back my words insulting your kin, and give you this instead.” At this point, he held out the map for Bilbo to take. “You are very important, Bilbo, to me as well as to the quest, and you have already played a massive part in this undertaking. Truly, had it not been for you, I would still be in a cell. I owe you my life, my dear Bilbo, and I will soon owe you even more, once we get inside my Mountain. So that you may remember this quest, and all who went on it with you, me, in particular, I wish to give you my grandfather’s map.

“When tales of the Reclamation of the Lonely Mountain are sung, and dwarves raise their voices to tell of the Quest for Erebor, they will also sing of Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. He who kept the Map safe from water, fire, and dwarves who were— are— very sorry for speaking so harshly to him. A very courageous hobbit, indeed!”

Bilbo smiled, and then finally took the map from Thorin’s hands. “Give me that, you silly old thing,” he said.

“I hope that you have forgiven me,” Thorin replied. “Or are thinking about it. I would not have you cross with me. I would hate to send you into the Mountain with you having adverse feelings for me, and this quest in general. You have an important task ahead of you, my dear hobbit, and it is very close to my heart. I fear you would not complete the task were your mood foul.” The dwarf stopped talking when he saw that Bilbo had taken a seat on his bedroll. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Taking a look at this map ,” Bilbo said. _‘And trying to avoid thinking about the burglaring you would have me do!’_ “Since I cannot read dwarf runes, as you pointed out earlier, I figured I could stay here and you can provide aid.”

“We will find out together,” said Thorin.

“Yes. Now sit down!”

Thorin did, a bit closer than was necessary, but it was cold beneath the shadow of the Mountain, so Bilbo did not mind too much. (Even though he was still a bit hurt at Thorin’s insults. It was a good apology, of course, but that does not heal hurt feelings. And the dwarf was still acting rather strange).

The hobbit, with fingers newly strong, unaffected by sickness, unfolded the map in his lap. He pointed at the red runes on the side of the map, and said, “Now first, tell me what it says there.”

Thorin, in his usual domineering manner, took Bilbo’s hand in his own, and guided the hobbit’s little finger across the bold, red lines, whispering their meanings to an attentive ear.

 

* * *

 

"It is time to fulfill the purpose of this quest!" cried Thorin, in his most kingly voice. Despite his efforts to seem full of heart, the Company still looked up at him with bleak eyes. Bilbo, from his spot at Thorin's side, noted that the dwarves went along with their surroundings very nicely: tired faces to match dead grasses and fire-blackened rocks. Thorin breathed out loudly, frustrated with his Company's unresponsiveness. He reached over, and took Bilbo's hand. He lifted his arm and held both of their hands up high. The Company at least raised their eyes to look at that. "Our esteemed Master Baggins has got the right idea. He has been telling us for days, and I have finally begun to listen. We must not lose heart! We must find a way into the Mountain. We will begin searching for the secret door at once! Or rather, once we move camp, but then, that is the time where we will begin searching."

"Thorin and I have been studying Thrór's map," Bilbo called out in his high voice. "And we believe that the door will be somewhere on the North side of the Mountain!"

"The Company must move to the Northern skirts, rather than where we are, which as you all might know, is on the Western side. Once everyone is packed up, myself and Balin, who hopefully still knows the way as I do, will lead you all to our next campsite. Begin!"

With that, the Company all trudged off, going to do as their king said. Bilbo himself dropped Thorin's hand, and started walking away, aiming on taking down his tent, which he had been sharing with Óin and Glóin. Before he got too far, Thorin's broad hand closed back over his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

"I have to help the Company take down camp," Bilbo said, rather than asking Thorin why he wanted him to stay.

"One word from me," the dwarf declared, "and you will not have to lift another finger."

"I am going to go," the hobbit said. "Thorin Oakenshield has lived almost two centuries without me constantly at his side. He does not need a hobbit. I think you can manage me being a while away for half an hour or so."

"Of course I can manage. Perhaps I just would not like to."

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had not kept count of the days that had past since they moved their camp. Five? Six? It was hard to keep track of the days, especially since it seemed he was the only one who gave a whit as to whether or not they found the door in time for Durin’s Day.

Not that the dwarves did not want to get into their Mountain. They ached to see their home, or the home that they have never seen, but heard about in all sorts of tales. They wished to see the soaring columns and walls of stone, the smooth paths worn down from dwarf-steps centuries old. The hobbit had listened to some of the tales, and had heard the Company’s songs, and he himself wanted to gaze upon their homeland. The great mines and forges of the Lonely Mountain would be something not many hobbits could attest to seeing. Would it not also be amazing to see Thorin, seated on his throne? The dwarves valued their history, and their heritage, but, of course, that is not all they were interested in. They were dwarves, at the end of the day. They wanted to see the treasure. Bilbo liked the dwarves he had spent almost half a Shire-year with, once he really got to know the group. He knew that they were not the greedy characters much of Middle-earth made them out to be. They were creatures of love, and honor, and pride. They were brave, and loyal, and put a great stock into those they trusted, and in their King. Even into their hobbit! Despite all this, some of the tales were true: they really did love their gold. Bilbo was sure that the thought of the shimmering metals and gems locked inside the Mountain was the only thing keeping half of the Company on their feet.

Every morning, they got out of their tents, listening with half-slumbering ears to their assignments for the day. Groups of two or three were sent to explore the whole North-Western side of the Mountain. They went off with waterskins, a few wafers of cram, a length of rope, and were not expected back until sundown. Day after day, dwarves trudged from high places down to the little camp hidden by the cave wall. There was no sign of the door, and every day spirits sank lower. Even Bilbo’s heart was slowly sinking, which was no good, since he was practically the leader of the Company by the time they were at the Mountain.

One day, Bilbo stood idly, toying with the straps of his pack in the constant shade that covered their camp, situated as it was in the shadow of the North-Western spur of the Mountain. He watched Thorin tighten the straps on his sturdy boots, and pull his cloak tightly around him, blocking out the chill of the autumn morning. The Company had done the same about ten minutes prior, and by the time Thorin and Bilbo were ready to leave, they were the only ones in camp besides Bombur, who volunteered to watch over things, since he did not think he would be able to scale the rocky sides of the Mountain. And at any rate, they needed someone to watch the ponies. Bombur was seated next to their extinguished cooking fire, staring listlessly at the blackened earth. Despite his assignment, he was not paying attention to much of anything, which could be said of most of the Company at that time.

“Are you ready?” Thorin asked Bilbo. The need to find the door was so strong that even Thorin, who was normally spared the menial work the Company often did, was scrambling over rocks and edging around narrow lips of stone to find the secret passageway. All he did was insist that Bilbo search along with him, and no one else. The dwarves did not seem surprised by this, but of course, that may be because of their low moods. When you are really feeling down, even the most interesting piece of gossip in the world could not make you lighten up. Or perhaps they were just used to having their leader wanting the hobbit by his side.

“As much as I ever will be,” Bilbo had replied.

Thorin held out a hand, and Bilbo took it. Bilbo led, and together they forged a path. But it was not onto the trails that wound their way around the Mountain. Rather, it was along one of the six rocky spurs that marched down from the peak, descending steadily into the barren plains, until they disappeared all together.

Thorin did not say anything for a long while, but eventually he dropped Bilbo’s hand and asked, “We should search the slopes, Bilbo, as is on the map. Much as the Company seems not to notice, we are under a sense of urgency. We must find the door, Bilbo.”

Bilbo nodded his head, and turned from where he stood to gaze up at the peak of the Lonely Mountain. He quickly turned back around. “I am just feeling myself lose hope, Thorin,” he said. “Over the course of this journey, I have found myself wanting to get inside this Mountain almost as much as you all (anything is better than standing in its blasted shadow!). It is frustrating to come this far, and be stopped because I cannot find a really, rather large door in a cliff side. Honestly, it seemed like a rather large thing whenever I thought of it! I am upset that we cannot find it! I do not want to look at the Mountain for a while. Sitting for a while may help me calm down and search better.”

The dwarf did not say anything, but then he finally replied, “Then let us sit, for a while, as you say.” He once again took Bilbo’s hand, and together they sat down in the shade beneath one of the spurs jutting out from the dead land. “I am often one to speak of duty, but I understand wishing to rest. Aimless searching and wandering does not often lead to success.”

Bilbo hummed softly, and laid his little head on one of Thorin’s broad shoulders. “That is how I found you in the dungeons of Mirkwood,” he pointed out.

“It does not _often_ lead to a profit,” Thorin replied. “To benefit from such purposeless action requires a great deal of luck, I believe. And you, of course, have more than a great deal of that. I would even say that you have an unreasonable amount of luck.”

“I am lucky number fourteen,” Bilbo said. “I was bound to have good fortune over the course of this quest.”

“Perhaps that is the reason. Perhaps, instead, the good fortune is due to the luck that comes with a rabbit’s foot. Or feet, rather.”

Bilbo straightened up. “Stop that, won’t you?”

“An apt description for our Burglar, I believe. Beorn had it all figured out when he named our hobbit: a little bunny.”

“How disrespectful!” Bilbo spluttered, starting to stand. Normally he might have laughed at the jest, but he was a little fed up with most of the things going on in the shadow of the Mountain. The poor fellow really was frustrated with the quest, and himself, at that time. And the whole time they had walked through the brittle grass of the desolation, Thorin would not speak to him. Rather, the dwarf whispered something about stones under his breath, keeping his gaze on the ground. That is enough to make any hobbit short-tempered! “Thorin! Praps I leave you here, and go search on the mountainside! I am a grown hobbit, you know. Fifty-one years I have spent in this green Middle-earth! Won’t you stop your teasing!”

Thorin did not laugh at Bilbo's indignation, but it seemed like a close thing. “I did not know it would bother you so! You did not protest so much when Beorn said it, and I thought in the back of my head, and said, _‘How adorable!’_. You should have said something.” Thorin spread his arms out to Bilbo. Whether it was an expression of apology and surrender, or rather an invitation for the hobbit to take his place in them, Bilbo could not say. “Come, I will not tease you so. Let us lay here for a bit longer, my dear, before I begin to feel guilty about leaving the Company to their own.”

Bilbo grumbled, as he was wont to do, but he still obliged to what Thorin said. He went with the latter of his earlier thought, of what Thorin wanted to do with his arms, that is, and eased himself down to the ground, this time atop Thorin, in the little space created by Thorin’s crossed legs. Bilbo’s back was pressed against the dwarf’s broad chest. If Thorin was surprised by the contact, he did not show it. He very quickly got used to the full weight of the hobbit against him, wrapping a strong arm around Bilbo’s still somewhat plush midsection. Bilbo, however, was not fully content with that. He dragged Thorin’s other arm so it was wrapped around him, and settled his hands over where Thorin’s were crossed, just over his navel.

“You are soft,” the dwarf said, after a beat of quiet. He realized this was a bit of an odd thing to say, so then he continued with, “I should have held you like this much sooner. It is nice. I would have kept you even closer in that Lake-house.”

Bilbo closed his eyes and nodded. Then after a while, he whispered softly, "You smell of brined fish."

“So do you,” Thorin said. Bilbo did not see the curve of the dwarf’s lips, but rather felt them, as the king nuzzled against the crook of his neck.

It seemed like the right thing to do, in the cool shade cast by the rock they sat beneath: to speak quietly, to not disturb the peace of the moment. All the worries that had been plaguing Bilbo since he first laid his dark eyes on the Mountain, all the doubt and fear; none of it disappeared with Thorin around, of course. Thorin’s nose nestling up to the soft skin on his neck and behind his ear did not make every bit of stress go away. The scrape of beard did not help to ease his worries. The dwarf whispering quiet, secret, foreign words of endearment into Bilbo’s coily, curly hair did not make the hobbit’s troubles vanish. But having Thorin near made Bilbo feel a bit calmer about things. The dwarf at his side made him feel more confident about everything that was happening. Thorin had a habit of spreading his determination to others. In the desolation, it seemed like all of the dwarf’s resolve had gone to Bilbo. The hobbit felt the strength to renew his search, while Thorin seemed happy to stay in that peaceful spot (at least, he was, as long as he was not thinking of his jewel). All of Thorin’s confidence went into Bilbo, making the hobbit’s chest swell with pride.

Bilbo Baggins had stolen from trolls, snuck out of the goblin tunnels, outrun wolves, and escaped from an inescapable prison. He had won games of wit and chance, and befriended elf-lords and wizards and dwarves from all walks of life. He had a magic ring! He was curled up and holding hands with a dwarf who would soon be king. Because there was no doubt that Bilbo Baggins could find the secret passage! What was one door to a master Burglar such as he? What was this against everything he had already done, all that he had done to prove himself? _‘Nothing’,_ the hobbit thought, filled with self-determination. He opened his eyes and put on his most commandeering face.

“I am ready to search!” Bilbo said, breaking the relative silence. He made an effort to sit up, but could not, with the heavy weight of Thorin's arms holding him.

Thorin lifted his head from where he had rested it, dropped low and against Bilbo’s shoulder. “Now?” the dwarf asked.

“Yes,” the hobbit replied. “I can feel it: I will find the door soon! I just know it.”

“Of course you will,” Thorin agreed. “I am quickly making it a habit to never disagree with you, Bilbo. You have an uncanny way of being correct. But can’t you wait a bit longer? Let me hold you a while, before you go off into the unknown, stealing treasure and charging at dragons.”

_‘Well,’_ thought Bilbo, at that. _‘How could I say no to such a reasonable request?’_

With a huff, he eased himself back down, submitting once more to Thorin’s affections. He thought only of how warm he felt, being held by such strong arms— such arms you could never find in the Shire. He thought only of the rasp of a beard, and how pleasant it felt against his skin. He thought of hands, grasping his, as he idly spun skin-warmed metal around Thorin’s thick fingers. He thought of lips whispering long, rumbling words into his ear, and wished that he had the courage to kiss them.

And he absolutely did not think of dragons.

 

* * *

 

Thorin picked him up, arms tight around Bilbo’s middle. It was sometime in the evening, and they stood in the little bay before the secret door, newly discovered. While the Company celebrated and banged with their fists on the stone, a dwarf-lord held Bilbo Baggins close, spinning him in a circle, smiles on both their faces.

 

* * *

 

No one much liked the way they were to travel between the third camp and the doorstep. Bilbo had never felt more woeful about his lost weight than when Bofur explained to him how the mechanics of the ropes and pulleys he had set up would help him scale the distance between the two locations. Had he been the size he was when the journey started, no doubt he would have been spared from the act altogether. The dwarf knotted the rope tightly around the hobbit’s waist, and grinned while the little fellow complained loudly about it.

“I never agreed to this, as it was certainly not mentioned in the job description,” Bilbo groused. “This is not the sort of thing I am suited for. Can’t we send down Kíli? He would be a better guardsman than I.”

“His stint has ended for the day, you silly. And besides, he is at the door, checking for cracks. It is your turn, I am afraid.”

“O very well,” said the hobbit. “Make sure I do not fall and break anything on me, friend.”

The dwarf race is famous for its fashioning of metals and gems, as well as its ability to mine the stuff from the ground. One thing they are not widely known for, but still rather good at, is the sort of engineering that helps them build their vast kingdoms of stone, and the sort that keeps a mine shaft safe and stable. This sort of skill helped the dwarves fashion their pulley system. In fact, it was almost too simple for the Company as they set it up. As so, Bilbo did not fall, and he did not break anything. The most damage he got was a little scrape on his leg when he bumped against the side of the Mountain.

The hobbit kept his eyes shut the whole way down, so he was surprised when, instead of having his sturdy feet touch solid ground, he was enveloped in a pair of strong arms. He did not even have to open his eyes to see who it was.

“That was not so bad, eh?” the dwarf asked, setting Bilbo down on the ground. He put an arm on the hobbit’s shoulder while he fussed with the rope tied around his midsection.

“I’ve experienced better things,” Bilbo replied. He let the ropes fall to the ground, and called up to Bofur, getting him to lift the ropes back up to the doorstep.

“I am sure,” Thorin said. “Come, you will share my watch.”

There was, of course, nothing good about going on watch. Especially when there was nothing to look at but barren land and jagged rocks poking up from the ground. But Bilbo had conceded that it was not so terrible, with someone at your side, passing the time with you.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo, once more, was sitting upon the doorstep, as he had jokingly referred to the spot before the hidden door. He had taken to shrugging off company, and instead sat there alone. He told the Company he was sitting there and thinking, but really, he was not thinking of anything in particular.

The hobbit had felt his heart soar when he first discovered the path and the secret passage it led to, but now that he could not get inside, his spirits were lower than they had ever been before. And the dwarves felt much the same. They were giving up hope that there could even be a chance they would get in through Thrór’s door. Some were turning to other thoughts.

The doorstep was in a little cleft in the mountainside, and was a couple of feet higher than a little rocky bay that jutted out from the mountainside. The dwarves of the Company, when they were not exercising the ponies, milling about the camp, or exploring the mountainside, could often be found sitting down there, leaning against the rocks, chatting and smoking. Bilbo did not join in: he had really and truly tried to sequester himself on the doorstep.  

Two days before Durin’s Day, that bay was where Dwalin, Bifur, and Thorin were sitting.

Thorin said quietly, though not quietly enough to miss Bilbo’s sharp hearing, “Durin’s Day is swiftly approaching.”

“And winter comes after that,” said Bifur thoughtfully.

“And the next year after that,” Dwalin continued. “We have been here for weeks, and have not found a way to get inside. Bilbo has got himself that ring of invisibility. I have got the idea that we should send him to snoop around the Front Gate.”

Bilbo, up by the door, blanched at that. He stopped his idle gaze at the large snails he had been watching, and turned his full attention to the conversation below him.

Bilbo knew that the Company was getting upset with the door being locked— he was frustrated himself. But to think that some of them were thinking about sending him through the Front Gate. Directly into a hall taken up mostly by a huge dragon!

Dwalin saying it, and Bifur sagely nodding along in agreement, stung him, that is sure. Even worse was Thorin grunting in approval, not even shooting down the idea. Not defending his hobbit, the one who held his heart. Bilbo knew the dwarf was desperate to get that stone-whatsit he kept muttering about, but he did not know that the dwarf was desperate enough to give him up to the dragon so soon, and so directly.

Bilbo knew when he signed up for this job, of course, that he would eventually be dealing with a dragon, and a rather large one at that. But he had also kept a little hope in his heart that the dragon may be dead, and he could possibly waltz in, steal a bit of gold, and be on his merry way. This was not the case, however. The dragon was probably very much alive, and he would not be able to steal much of anything without a fuss (for lack of a better word) being kicked up.

It rubbed Bilbo the wrong way that no dwarf offered to go into the Mountain himself, or volunteered to go in with him.

But of course, the main thing bothering Bilbo was that Thorin had not said a single thing. He was very through with the dwarves needing his help all the time, and he was through with only getting thanks immediately afterward. As in, in a matter of hours, the Company forgot the hobbit's good deeds and were back to treating him as they normally did. Bilbo wanted Thorin to treat him like he had in Lake-town— like he was a treasure, one to be cherished and protected and appreciated constantly. Thorin still held a great fondness for Bilbo, but he was, as most important folk are wont to do in such situations, focused on bigger things at the moment: his throne, and the symbol of his rule. He wanted them both badly, and Bilbo was an excellent way to obtain them both. In the back of the dwarf's mind, Thorin was still looking upon Bilbo with a great sense of adoration. Perhaps he was thinking that having his trothed (if that is what you could call Bilbo) find the symbol of his line would make the match seem more appealing to possible doubting parties. Perhaps he was thinking of the kiss he would surely give Bilbo if he could place his Arkenstone in his hands. That is, of course, not what happened. And anyway, Bilbo was not thinking of any fond feelings Thorin may be having for him. He was just upset and frustrated, and did not want to give much thought to what sort of feelings any dwarf may have.

After the hobbit heard that conversation, he made an even bigger effort to stay on the doorstep. When Thorin came up later to speak with him, and bang on the door a little bit, Bilbo turned him away. The hobbit did not go back down to the camp until most of the Company was asleep, only Dori sitting up, on his watch. Bilbo did not acknowledge the dwarf greeting him, and he laid his bedroll a good ways away from where the Company was clustered; they were looking for body warmth in lieu of a campfire.

Situated nearer to the ponies more than anything, Bilbo did not get much sleep that night. He tossed and turned for hours, resisting the urge to snarl every time a dwarf made a particularly loud snort or snore (he was quite upset that he could not sleep, and they could). He was up before the Sun rose, and he headed right back up to the doorstep.

He sat there all day, watching the Company wander aimlessly among the rocks. Some showed initiative, and exercised the ponies for a while. Most, however, just roved along the mountain paths. The Company seemed to have completely given up, or perhaps they had already decided that they were soon sending Bilbo into the Mountain. At any rate, they quit coming up onto the doorstep to give a few lasts attempts to break the door down.

Gone were the dwarves hammering at the door with their fists, or swinging at it with axes. Attempts to find a weak spot were abandoned, and not even Fíli or Kíli were up there, throwing pebbles at the slab where they suspected the door to be. Bilbo was completely alone with his thoughts.

He was not thinking about anything important, though. His thoughts mainly dwelled on how miserable he felt. He leaned his back against the door, and poked at one of the giant snails with a wooly toe. He kept his eyes on the rock at his feet, or on the horizon, where Mirkwood rested in the distance. And that was what he did all day. The only spot of brightness was when Balin came up with a bite to eat— dried fruit and cram, which was hardly better than nothing at all. The important thing of all this, however, is that nothing happened all _day_.

What came that _night_ is an altogether different story.

The Sun was an orange ball in the sky, and She slowly dipped behind the eaves of Mirkwood. As She sank, the Moon rose in her place. He was only a pale sliver of a thing, washed out in the still-present light of the Sun, but as soon as it was in sight, something happened.

_Crack!_

Bilbo turned around very quickly, and saw that a huge, coal-black thrush was staring at him with bright eyes. It had one of the giant snails in its beak, and it knocked it against the stone, _crack! crack!_

Bilbo suddenly recalled what he and Thorin had spoke about several days past: the runes on the map. Of course! The hobbit had been feeling miserable all day, at the thought of going in through the Front Gate. Then here, suddenly, was the solution to his problems! He cried aloud, a happy, wordless call into the air. Forgetting the danger of causing so much noise, he poked his head out the bay, and let out another cry (this one with words):

"Hi, you! Company! Thorin! Yoo-hoo! Won't you get up here! ! !"

Those nearest to him nearly fell over themselves in their surprise at the loud call, but they righted themselves quickly enough. They did not dare to call back so loud, but in any case, they hurried quickly up to the secret bay. A few dwarves stayed behind, and hauled the members of the Company in the camp up to the ledge. A few minutes of relatively quiet chaos, and all the dwarves (with the exception of Bombur: he was sleeping) were looking at Bilbo, who looked as if he were about to burst from the news he was waiting to share.

The dwarves all stood there, watching him. Satisfied that he had all their attention, Bilbo quickly explained.

"It is Durin's Day," he said. "The last light is shining on the keyhole! The Sun is dipping below the horizon, that is, and listen to the thrush knock! The keyhole should reveal itself in moments, as said on the map!"

The Company marvelled at that, and quickly turned their heads to the stone Bilbo was standing above. As minutes passed, they looked between the two, wordlessly asking why the door had not shown itself. The last light was failing, they thought, and the hobbit had misread the signs. At last, the Sun ducked behind a cover of clouds, and darkness completely fell on the little bay.

The dwarves groaned in disappointment, and kicked at the rocks, but Bilbo still held himself in anticipation. He barely moved, praying to the powers that were listening that he was right.

And he _was_ right: no sooner had he said "may it be", when a last red finger of light peeked out of the cloud cover. It lit up the bay, and shone directly onto the stone-face of the secret door. The thrush, who had been sitting silent as Bilbo, gave a sudden long trill, and a loud crunch-crack sounded just as the note ended. The dwarves (and Bilbo) watched as a chunk of rock fell out of the door, leaving a hole in the stone, just around the top of Bilbo's head.

Without warning, a dozen dwarves surged forward and pushed and pounded on the door— to no effect.

"It is locked!" cried Bilbo. "The key! The key! Where is Thorin?"

Thorin rushed forward from where he had been standing. He had been staring in awe at the newly-appeared door, and had not surged forward with the rest of the Company. With his (slightly shaky) hands, he drew the chain his grandfather's key hung on from his neck. He pushed it into the hole (it fit!) and turned it slowly. With that, the Sun sank fully, and the Company was left in the dark.

In unspoken agreement, everyone began to push on the door again. This time, however, it moved. Slowly, with much grinding and cracking and groaning, the door gave way. One more large push, and the door silently swung forward all the way. The bay was dark, but the inside of the Mountain they could now see was darker still, inky and foreboding.

For a long while, Bilbo stood there, peering into the dark. He could not see a single thing, of course, but still he craned his neck and narrowed his eyes, tuning out the debating of the dwarves. That is what they were doing. Now that the door was open, some of them seemed at a loss, not sure of what they should do. Finally, Thorin spoke above the din, and in his deep voice he said:

"The time has come for our esteemed Master Baggins, who has proved himself a good companion on our journey, and a hobbit full of courage and resource far exceeding his size, and if I may say so again, possessed of good luck far exceeding the usual allowance— now is the time for him to perform the service for which he was included in our Company; now is the time for him to earn his Reward."

We are all well acquainted by now with how Thorin can get on, and he spoke like this for a good long while, but Bilbo, instead of listening with good humor at his rambling, was tapping his big feet rather impatiently. He crossed his arms, and he huffed, and he rolled his eyes. Eventually he just cut off Thorin.

"THORIN," he said. "I am aware of my job, and as we have discussed, yes, of course! I am going into the Mountain first. Just get to the point, you silly thing. Who knows if I should, though? I have delivered the lot of you from two awful fixes, I hope you'll remember, and I'd say that I have earned my Reward, as you say, twice over! My father said, however, 'time pays for all', and I care for you, and I suppose I cannot refuse. I put a great deal into my luck, more so than I did in the old days, that is to say, before you all came knocking at my door, but anyway, I will go. I will go and scout a little, and have a look-see. Who is coming with me?"

Thorin had no idea how to respond to all that, and the rest of the Company looked at their feet. If any had met with Bilbo's big, dark eyes, they knew they wouldn't be able to refuse. Fíli and Kíli shifted uncomfortably, but the rest stared resolutely down. Luckily, Bilbo had not expected any volunteers, so he was not very disappointed when no one offered. After a while, Balin stepped forward.

"I will go a little ways with you," he said. "Within earshot so that if you call for help, I could bring some."

Bilbo nodded his head in thanks, said his good-byes, and took a deep breath, preparing to stride into the blackness of the tunnel. He held out his arm for Balin to take, but it was Thorin who grabbed his hand instead.

Now, you may be thinking harshly of Thorin, and the rest of the Company as well, but they were just acting as dwarves do. They are a people with big hearts, but shrewd minds. They knew the risk of going into the Mountain without knowing what was in there first, and no one really wished to take it. Even so, they all cared for Bilbo, in their own way. They were definitely going to give him a good deal of treasure for his trouble, as he had earned it in their eyes. And if they knew he really was in trouble, there was no doubt that they would go to his aid. Thorin cared much for Bilbo, but it was, after all, the hobbit's job to go in there first. He did not say anything to the hobbit of this like; he did not actually say anything. He squeezed Bilbo's hand tightly, then dropped it. Bilbo tried his best to look cheerful, and then turned his back to Thorin.

With no word of comfort, the hobbit took his first step into the Lonely Mountain. His lips drawn into a tight line, Thorin watched his hobbit disappear into the blackness.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had gotten one look at the dragon, and he immediately quailed. The beast was large, red, and puffing out long tails of steam and vapor from its snout. The long, low rumbles of its snoring shook the floor, and the hobbit had never been more uncomfortable in his life.

He and Balin had travelled through the tunnel, and the hobbit marvelled at how smooth the step was. It was extremely level, and his hobbit feet strode on with no obstacle. After a minute or so of walking, Balin told Bilbo that it was there he would be standing. He wanted a good view of the door, in case there was trouble. He wished the hobbit good luck.

Bilbo thanked him, and grasped the dwarf's arm tightly in farewell. He slipped on his ring, and crept his way down the long tunnel, making a point to stay as silent as possible. His hands shook, and his heart was hammering, but his face was set. He knew what he had to do, and he was going to complete the job. He put a hand on Sting, adjusted his belt, and continued on his way.

He walked on and on, and after a long time (so long that his heart was back to its regular rhythm, his shaking steadying) the tunnel stopped its downward slope, and began to level out. There was no sign of the door behind him, and there was no hint of dwarf whispers. The hobbit was beginning to feel rather hot, and he fancied that he could see a bit of a glow, a light ahead of him.

He kept going, and he was getting increasingly worried as the tunnel got hotter and hotter, and wisps of steam and vapor blew past him. He began to sweat, as the light got redder and redder, and his ears were filled with a loud, low, burbling purr. He stopped his way forward once he realized that the sound was the snoring of some large beast. His face twisted, and he scrubbed at his forehead, brushing his sweat into his hair. He fought the urge to whimper and turn right around. Instead, he resolutely took a step forward. Later on, if you asked him, Master Baggins would tell you that that was his bravest moment: stepping into that chamber, even though he had never been more terrified in his life.

A little while longer, and he was finally at the end of the tunnel. It tapered off, and the small opening that lead into the vast hall was about the same size as the door carved into the mountain side. Bilbo poked his curly little head through it, and was met with the very lowest hall of the Mountain: the Treasure Room of Thrór, former King Under the Mountain. The chamber was so large that Bilbo could not see the corners. He saw stone columns, soaring up to support a ceiling he could not even see. He saw mounds and mountains of gold, silver, and jewels. It was all lit by the glowing red light of Smaug.

Smaug! He was a great beast, bright red and shimmering. He was not curled up, but rather, he lay stretched out on his side, his wings wrapped close around him. Bilbo got a good look at the monster's belly, and he saw that it was encrusted with gold and jewels of all kinds, all lit with a ruddy light. All around him steam and smoke swirled, and his breath came out in low rumbles.

Bilbo was terrified, but he soon forgot his peril, looking upon the treasure. In that moment, he fully understood the hearts of his friends. Gazing upon the full treasure hoard of Thrór, he was overwhelmed. There was so much wealth, and so much majesty, that he could not even find the words to describe it. He stood there, a little hobbit in a vast dwarven kingdom, forgetting all about the fierce guardian slumbering upon the treasure beyond price, beyond count.

He stood there for a long, long time. An age could have passed, for how little Bilbo heeded the time. Eventually, though, something in his mind made him step back into the tunnel. As soon as his eyes were torn away from the treasure, Bilbo scolded himself mentally. _'Looking at all that treasure,'_ he thought. _'Forgetting about what was right in front of you! It is not yours yet, you silly.'_

Then he thought that his "look-see", as he had said, had lasted long enough. He decided that he had scouted long enough, and would now head back up the surface. Before he went, however, he made one last decision to live up to his title as Burglar. Casting his eyes about, he saw a large, gem encrusted cup, lying just in front of him. Stealing forward, with a furtive eye cast upwards, he grabbed one of the golden handles. He held it for a minute, and when Smaug did nothing except shift in his sleep, he picked it up. He then fled, hurrying as fast (and silently) as he could with his hobbit feet.

The climb upward seemed even longer with the heavy cup in his arms. His heart pounded even more erratically than before, his arms shook, and his lip quivered. Even so, he was very proud of himself. Never again would any in the Company would doubt him. After that thought, Bilbo almost believed that the trek did not seem so bad, not when he imagined how overjoyed Thorin would be to see him and the cup.

After an age, Bilbo finally saw Balin standing ahead of him, his back leaning against the wall. The dwarf straightened up quickly, a grin on his face when he saw what Bilbo held in his hands. He was worried the hobbit would never come back, so he was doubly glad to see the fellow and his loot. He picked Bilbo up in his arms, and carried him the rest of the way up the tunnel.

All Bilbo could recall about that time back in the open air of the doorstep was a bit of a blur. Himself and the cup were being passed around, and many wordless cries of happiness were heard in the little bay. He took in great gulps of fresh air, and absently thanked every dwarf who thumped him on the back and pledged him their eternal service.

The one thing he remembered clearly was Thorin. The dwarf held him close against his chest (Bilbo was immediately conscious of how sweaty he still was). He was squeezed tightly and rocked around, hair and beard getting into his nose and his mouth. He smiled in spite of all this, as a stream of strange, fond words of gratitude were spoken into his hair. After a while of this, the dwarf began to speak in Common.

"You have brought me the first contents of my treasure hoard," Thorin said softly. "My first belongings as king. I will see you rewarded, my dear— my heart. I thank you."

He stepped back, and held Bilbo at an arm's length. He did not look at the hobbit however, with kind eyes and a smile. He was completely engrossed, rather, with the cup in his free hand.

Bilbo, thankfully, was still distressed enough to not notice Thorin's hungry gaze for the gold.

All thoughts of treasure were soon forgotten, however, once Smaug awoke and realized the theft that took place. How he roared, and how the Mountain trembled! The Company tore their gazes away from the cup, and instead looked fearfully upon one another. They could not see Smaug's glittering red coat or the brilliant blue-scarlet-green flames that spouted from his maw, nor could the beast see them. All the same, they cowered against the walls of the little bay, hoping to avoid the baleful eye of the dragon.

Not one of the Company would have lived past that day, had it not been for Bilbo. He had been under the threat of the dragon once before, and though he was terrified, he was a bit less terrified than the dwarves. He grabbed Thorin's hand and tugged.

"Come, come!" he cried. "We cannot stay here! Into the tunnel!"

The Company wanted very much to avoid the wroth dragon, but before they could all creep through the hidden door, Bifur gasped loudly, and said quickly: "My cousins! Bombur and Bofur are still in the valley!"

"They will be slain," lamented the Company. "Along with our ponies, and our food shall all be burned up. We can do nothing!"

"Nonsense!" Thorin said loudly. He was cowering no longer, but instead stood up straight and tall. He looked at Bifur and declared, "We shall save your kin. We cannot leave them to perish! Where are the ropes?"

The Company started moving immediately, running to where they had set up their pulley system. Thorin went off to join them, but not before he had a word with Bilbo.

He wrapped the hobbit's hands around the handles of the stolen goblet, and leaned down so he could press their foreheads together.

"Get inside with Balin and my sister-sons," said the dwarf. "The dragon will not kill all of us. I will return."

"Good-bye," Bilbo said in a small voice, to Thorin's receding back.

 

* * *

 

The Company (this time including Bofur and Bombur) got back inside the Mountain, just in time. Bilbo had just yanked the last dwarf into the tunnel, when the very roots of the Mountain shook with the force of Smaug’s roar. Bilbo and the dwarves and hobbit all hurtled as fast as they could, down into the darkness of the Mountain. They ran and flinched with every scream of the dragon. Their faces lit up briefly in the dark with every spurt of flame Smaug sent their way, and they cursed as some of the fire licked at their heels. They ran, then crept, then crawled, then collapsed. Then they laid in the dark tunnel, clutching at each other, shaking and sweating, listening to the dragon’s wing beats and his roars. Not a soul in the Company slept that night, and no soul could even hope to relax. Though there was no comfort in it, Bilbo held Thorin’s hand as they waited for Smaug to give up.

Eventually, dawn came, and the Sun showed pink through the crack of the hidden door. It was not until morning had truly come, though, when Smaug returned to his golden bed.

“Now what happens?” asked Kíli asked quietly. The Company all spoke up at once, though they did it in harsh whispers.

“We need to leave,” they hissed. “If we stay, we shall be roasted or eaten!”

“How can we leave when we have just arrived?” Balin said.

“It would be difficult to leave, at any rate.” Thorin rubbed at his brow, in a gesture of exhaustion. “Our ponies have likely been eaten, and who is to say that Smaug is not still watching the door? I do not fancy our chances in that bare valley against a dragon.”

“I do not fancy our chances against a dragon in any situation,” Bilbo said. “Did no one plan for this? Did no one have an idea on how to deal with him?”

“We had several,” the Company replied. “It is just that it is doubtful that they would work!”

“Then what are we to do?” asked the hobbit, repeating Kíli’s question.

This they discussed for a while. But no matter how much they talked, they could not come up with a good answer. They could not leave, but they could not just stay in the tunnel. There was only so much food, so much water, so they would have to come up with an idea on how to deal with Smaug. Should they fight him? Could they lead him away? None of that would work! And what a shame they had to deal with the dragon. Had Bilbo not stolen that cup, perhaps the beast would still be sleeping, and they would not be under so much pressure. Suddenly, instead of being terrified of the dragon, they were cross with the hobbit.

“Am I burglar or not?” Bilbo asked angrily. He pointed an accusing finger at Thorin. “What else should I have done? We decided in my smial that I was no warrior; I was just doing my best in the role I was assigned. And I made a good beginning, as that is a handsome cup, and you all were so pleased to get it, and I don’t like how mad you are now! If anyone should be grumbling now, it should be me! There was an unbelievable amount of treasure down there! I am sure that is a compliment to your grandfather, Thorin, and to yourself, but I was never told how much treasure I was actually expected to steal. Someone could have made mention! Did you expect me to carry that all up to you, under the nose of that beast? It would take me lifetimes to deliver all that gold, even if I were fifty times as big, and Smaug as tame as a bunny.”

The dwarves all became a little more civil after that scolding, to be sure. They asked Bilbo for his pardon, and he, of course, gave it to them. Not without a bit of huffing and turning his nose up, though!

“What should we do then, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked politely.

“I have no idea,” Bilbo said. He was still a bit irritated, and acted as so. “About removing the treasure, or removing Smaug. Getting rid of a dragon seems quite impossible, actually. Personally I have no hopes at all, and wish I was safe back at home.”

“We know that!” cried the Company. “But right now, what should we do?”

Bilbo thought for a long moment (mostly for dramatic effect— he already had an idea of what he wanted to do); he hemmed and hawed, rubbed his hairless chin, and tapped his big feet. Balin saw through the act soon enough, and elbowed Bilbo in the side, a wordless gesture to get on with it. It was not kind of the hobbit to leave the dwarves hanging like that, but Bilbo was still displeased that he was interrupted. He pursed his lips and huffed before delivering his plan. It was this:

The Company would stay in the Mountain, at least by day. Bilbo would go down to the Treasure Room once more, and he would see if Smaug was there. He would see if the beast was awake or sleeping, and most importantly, he would try to find its weak spot. He would not do it, however, until noon came.

Ever since Mirkwood, and the ordeal with the Forest River, the Company had come to accept Bilbo as the leader of the quest, higher than even Thorin. Bilbo was continuing to have brilliant ideas and plans of his own, and the Company was deferring to him now. Bilbo and his ring would be more useful than anything else, at least, while the Mountain remained out of Thorin’s grasp.

Now, Bilbo had two reasons to not go down the tunnel until noon. One, it would give the dragon plenty of time to settle down and perhaps fall asleep. (Now is where you and I laugh at the fellow. Of course a being like Smaug would not sleep! Not after he had just been burgled. Bilbo’s was a fool’s hope). And two, he had not slept in a little over two days. He felt he deserved a nap, nay, needed one! And he was going to get it. One needs all their wits about them when a dragon is involved, after all.

He told Balin to wake him up when it was time for him to go down, and strayed as far as was safe from the Company (no more than four or five feet from where Glóin and his brother were dozing off). The hobbit took off Dwalin’s ragged green cloak (it was rather hot in the tunnel), balled it up, and laid his head down on it. He fell asleep to images of gold, gems, and rings flashing behind his eyes; all glinting in a warm, red light.

 

* * *

 

When he slowly awakened, it was to a rough hand squeezing his fingers, another stroking the hair off of his forehead. It was quite pleasant, and he stretched languidly, from his neck down to his wooly toes. He felt relaxed, as if he were in Bag-End, under the comforting mass of several blankets. It was exactly the way Thorin woke him up that one evening in Mirkwood, his cool rings a reassuring weight on his forehead.

That’s when Bilbo realized where he was, and what was happening. Thorin was there, in the secret tunnel of his grandfather. This was no lazy morning in the Shire, nor an awakening from an almost pleasant nap in the depths of Mirkwood. Bilbo was in the Lonely Mountain, and he was to go down alone to face Smaug a second time. The hobbit opened his eyes, and sat up straight. Thorin must have seen something in his eyes— a strong resolve, courage, maybe fear— but whatever it was, the dwarf did not let go of Bilbo. He pulled him gently to his feet, and picked up his cloak that Bilbo had cast aside that morning.

He clasped the cloak over the hobbit’s right shoulder (to keep his sword arm free), and moved his hand to the small of Bilbo’s back.

“Are you afraid?” the dwarf asked. He followed the hobbit as he slowly made his way through the Company. Some of them were asleep, and Bilbo plucked his way carefully over their bodies. The ones who were awake wished the hobbit good luck, and he inclined his head slightly in thanks. Balin was one of those sleeping. Bilbo wished he had been awake: he would have liked to speak with his friend before going down to see Smaug again.

“Well, I do not like it, of course,” Bilbo replied. “But I have got to do it.” Thorin did not respond, so he continued, “It is somewhat better, I suppose, that I know what is ahead of me. And that is better than nothing.”

“I wish you luck, then, Master Baggins,” Thorin said formally. “May your good fortune last you through the encounter. Keep your wits about you, dear Bilbo, and do not do anything rash, for your own safety, and for the Company’s as well (so for your sake, I would not try to steal anything more, just yet).”

“I won’t,” Bilbo said. “Steal anything, that is. I certainly won’t, if it means more fire and ash and running. So yes, I will stay safe, and smart, and I will come back. In a little while, then.”

He dropped Thorin’s hand and started down the tunnel, away from the light of the afternoon streaming in from the crack under the secret door. Into darkness.

 

* * *

 

The hobbit ran, fast as he could, from the foul snout of Smaug. The beast had stuck it right into the tunnel, once Bilbo had made his parting shot. Luckily, he could only fit the nostrils in, but that still did enough damage. _‘Never laugh at live dragons,’_ Bilbo had said to himself wisely, and he was quite right. It took every ounce of endurance and strength he had to escape the flame and hot vapor Smaug sent his way, and even then, he did not completely escape the heat. The last stretch up the length of the tunnel, he was stumbling along blindly and in great pain, terrified for his life.

It was cool evening light that greeted Bilbo as he clambered his way back outside, onto the doorstep, where the dwarves were now waiting. He tried to give them all a weak smile as they all rocketed up to see him, but that was a touch more than the poor fellow could manage, and he collapsed in a dead faint.

When he awoke, he was lying down on cold stone, and Balin was fussing with the scorched hair on the back of his head. As he slowly took stock of his body, Bilbo saw that while he was knocked out, one of the dwarves had tended to his burns— his many burns. Not only had the hair on the back of his head been singed down to his scalp, he had been burned on his legs, feet, and neck as well. He was all bandaged up, but everything still stung and throbbed with heat. He dreaded to think of what had happened to the dark, curly hair that usually thatched his legs and feet. He was loath to part with it: it was one of his best features.

Balin noticed that Bilbo was awake when the fellow reached down to touch a burn on his leg, and whimpered most miserably. He quickly gestured at the rest of the Company, and they all gathered around where Bilbo was lying. The dwarves were eager to make sure he was comfortable, and very soon, the hobbit was sitting up, his tender head propped up against Thorin’s shoulder. He had a waterskin in one hand, Thorin’s hand in the other.

The dwarves were very worried for their friend, which is part of the reason why they were eager to please him. Whatever the hobbit wanted, (that was on hand, of course), was given to him. He received a slightly withered plum that Kíli had found in the bottom of his pack, and Dori gave Bilbo an extra pair of mittens gladly.

The other reason why the Company was being so kind to the hobbit was that they wished to know what happened in the Mountain; why the dragon made such a terrible noise, and how Bilbo had escaped.

However, they were having a hard time of getting Bilbo’s story out of him. He was very worried, and uncomfortable, and he was being very difficult. He was thinking back on what had happened in in the Treasure Room, and he was strongly regretting the things that he had said. It was apparent that Smaug had guessed too much, hard as the hobbit tried to speak in riddles and sleights. He did not want to repeat any of it to the dwarves, not when they were all being so kind to him.

“Come on, Bilbo!” the Company said. Fíli patted Bilbo gently on his shoulder. “Tell us!”

“Let him be,” said Balin. “He will tell us when he is ready.”

“And who knows when that will be,” grumbled the Company, but they at least grumbled quietly.

They all sat there, while Thorin said words of encouragement and sweet nothing into Bilbo’s inattentive ear. Bilbo was not concerned with what the dwarf had to say, rather, his attention was caught by a thrush standing on a rock. Its head was cocked to the side, in a fashion that suggested to Bilbo that he was listening to every word Thorin was saying. The hobbit was in such a foul mood that instead of directing his anger at things that deserved it, he gave it all to the thrush. He picked up a small stone and threw it at the bird. Unruffled, the bird merely fluttered to the side and came back.

“Drat that bird!” said Bilbo crossly. “He is listening to every word you are saying, and I don’t like the look of him.”

“Leave him alone,” said Thorin, taking the hand Bilbo used to throw the stone. He wrapped both hands around it, and rested them all in his lap. “The thrushes around this Mountain are good and friendly— this is a very old bird indeed, and is maybe the last left of the ancient breed that used to live about here, tame to the hands of my father and grandfather. They were a long-lived and magical race, and this might even be one of those that were alive then, a couple of hundreds of years or more ago. The Men of Dale used to have the trick of understanding their language, and used them for messengers to fly to the Men of the Lake and elsewhere.”

“Well, he will certainly have news to take to Lake-town, if that is what he is after,” said Bilbo; “though I don’t suppose there are any people left that trouble with thrush-language.”

“That is true enough, but what has happened?” cried the dwarves. “Please get on with your tale!”

Bilbo finally told them all that he could remember (some parts were hard to recall, since he had been so terrified). He told the Company about his dreadful feeling that Smaug had guessed a little too much from the riddles Bilbo had told him. The hobbit was sure that the dragon knew they had come from Lake-town. He was worried for the (mostly) kind people that lived there, because he guessed that there is where the beast would strike next. “I wish that I had never said that about Barrel-rider; it would make anyone around these parts think of the Lake-men.”

“Well, it cannot be helped,” said Balin soothingly, anxious to comfort his friend. He stooped down next to Bilbo and Thorin, and patted Bilbo’s arm. “You did very well, better than most of us could do. At any rate, you found out one very useful thing, and you came back to us alive, and that is more than most can say who have had words with the likes of Smaug. It is good fortune that we now know of the hole in the old Worm’s diamond waistcoat.”

Well, that changed the topic of conversation, and while the dwarves were still immensely proud of their burglar, they now wished rather to speak of the information he found out, rather than of him. Bilbo did mind this so much, as it let him rest for a while. The Company spoke about all the dragon slayings they could recall from the great tales of the First Age. They discussed weak spots, machinations, and strategies that could bring down such a beast. The hobbit let them discuss; he just shut his eyes tight and tried not to throw up while he thought about what had just happened.

After a while, Bilbo began to think that the unpleasant feeling in his gut was not regret and horror, but instead, something like fear and foreboding. While Dwalin was speaking of the merits of a frontal assault on the dragon, Bilbo interrupted him.

“I feel as if we are very unsafe, here outside, and I don’t see the point of sitting here, as all the green is gone, and it is quite freezing.” Here, Thorin draped some of his cloak over the hobbit’s shoulder. “Thank you. But I feel it in my bones that Smaug will attack this place again. He knows how I came down into the Treasure Room, and as he probably knows the Mountain as well as any of you, he is bound to know where the end of the tunnel is. The beast will break this side of the Mountain into bits and pieces to stop us from getting back in, and I’m sure he will be very pleased if we all get smashed and burned into bits and pieces as well.”

Thorin looked down at the hobbit, who was still resting against him. He smiled, in spite of Bilbo’s dark tone. “You are very gloomy, Bilbo! If Smaug is so eager to keep us out, then why has he not blocked the lower end of the tunnel? We would have heard him, if he had tried.”

“I don’t know— I don’t pretend to know what that dragon has been thinking. Maybe he wants to lure me down there again, or he wants to hunt us at night, or maybe he does not want to damage his bedroom… I wish you all would not argue with me, or amongst yourself! I just know that Smaug will be coming out any minute now, and our only hope is to get deep inside that tunnel and shut the secret door.”

Bilbo was so earnest that the dwarves at last did what he said. They moved all their things into the tunnel, though they did not yet shut the door. They did not know how they would get it open again if it closed, and the idea of being shut into the tunnel when the only way out was through a dragon’s lair was not a pleasant one. For a long while they sat, no more than a few yards from the secret door. They kept on talking. Bilbo was once more slotted in at Thorin’s side, and it was there that he brought up Smaug’s cruel words against him and the rest of the Company. The dragon had pointed out the absurdity of the contract: there was no plausible way to possibly split up an entire kingdom’s treasure among fourteen people. And there was no easy way to transport such a large amount of wealth across Wilderland (and over the Misty Mountains— though Smaug knew not where Bilbo had come from).

Thorin tried his best to reassure the hobbit: Bilbo would get to choose his fourteenth share of the treasure, and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain would ensure that it was transported safely back to the Shire, or wherever else Bilbo would want to go.

“We are more than grateful. I, most of all,” Thorin said. “Believe me or not, but it is true.”

From then on, they stopped talking of the dragon, and instead talked of what he rested on: the great hoard of Thrór. It was then that Bilbo removed himself from Thorin’s side, and went to go sit by the door. He had lost all of his earlier enchanted interest for the hoard, and now only listened with one ear to their hushed whispers of gold and weapons and armor. However, no matter how hard he tried to listen to the world outside, he could not ignore Thorin’s murmurs about the King's Jewel.

 

* * *

 

Thorin had closed the door, at last, and not a moment too soon. Bilbo had been asking him to do it for hours. The dwarf slowly stood up from where he had been sitting, stopping his talk about his white jewel. He kicked away the rock that had been used as a doorstop, pushed against the door, and it closed with a click. The keyhole was gone, and they were shut in the Mountain.

Almost right as the door snapped close, a massive blow hit the side of the Mountain. The rock boomed and shuddered, the walls cracked, and stones and debris fell from the roof of the tunnel onto everyone’s heads. The Company was too terrified to do much clear thinking, but if they could have thought, they probably would have shuddered to think what would have happened had they left the door opened. Smaug was destroying the North side of the Mountain, smashing rocks with the lashing of his great tail. The camp, the bay, the thrush’s stone, the snail-covered wall— it all disappeared into an avalanche of stones that plummeted down into the valley below.

And then with one great roar, the destruction stopped. The Company heard the beat of Smaug’s wings, and then there was utter silence.

Bilbo had no idea how long they sat there. There was no way to count the passing time, and they did not eat, nor did they speak. It they moved even an inch, or spoke in the softest whisper, their noise echoed and carried down the length of the tunnel. So, they had not even the comfort of bodily contact in the complete darkness. If they slept, there was no morning to wake to. The only thing in the tunnel was still darkness and unbroken silence.

It felt like an age had passed, or maybe it was only a few hours, or a day, but at last Thorin spoke. “We must try the door!” he said. “If I do not feel the wind on my face soon I will die. I would rather be smashed by Smaug than suffocate in here!”

Several of the Company agreed, and they followed Thorin up to the door. But they discovered that the upper end of the tunnel had been destroyed, and further blocked with a large rock. No key, nor any sort of magic, would ever open the secret door again.

The Company despaired. “Here we are trapped!” they groaned. “We shall all die here.”

For some reason, just when the dwarves were the lowest they had ever been, Bilbo felt a strange lightness in him. He felt like he had had something like a great oliphaunt on his back, and only now, when it was gone, did he discover the way it had been weighing him down.

“Come, calm down, all of you! _‘While there is life, there is hope!’_ as my old dad used to say, and _‘Third time pays for all’_. I am going to go down there again, that is to say, into the Treasure Room. I have been down there twice, when I was certain there was a dragon, and now I will go down a third time, when I am no longer sure. At any rate, the only way out of here is down. And I believe that this time, you all had better come with me.”

They all agreed, if only because there was really nothing else to be done. Thorin was the first one to join Bilbo’s side. He grabbed Bilbo’s hand, and the hobbit was shocked to feel how clammy the dwarf’s palm was. Thorin, for all his bravery, was very worried about the dragon that could have been lurking down in the Treasure Room. It was Bilbo’s turn to pat the dwarf’s hand in a reassuring gesture. It was Bilbo’s turn to tell him that all would be fine.

“Now, do be careful,” Bilbo whispered. “And be as quiet as you can be! There may be no Smaug at the bottom, but then again, there may be. Let us not take any unnecessary risks!”

Then, down the tunnel they went. No one could match Bilbo in his stealth, especially not a bunch of terrified dwarves. They all made a great deal of puffing and shuffling around, and it all echoed alarmingly loudly. Bilbo stopped every now and then in fear, listening, but not a sound came from below. Perhaps Smaug really was gone!

Once they had come a long way, near the bottom, Bilbo let go of Thorin’s hand. He put on his ring.

Really, he did not need it. The darkness was complete in the Mountain, and everyone in the Company was invisible in the blackness of it all. In fact, it was so black, that the hobbit came to the end of the tunnel quite unexpectedly. He stumbled forward into open air, and rolled headlong into the hall.

 

* * *

 

“It smells of dragon,” said Bilbo. His voice was high and nasally (more so than usual), as he had his nose pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Thorin laughed at his distaste, and dragged him further through the treasure.

“Dragon droppings is a more apt description, I believe.” Thorin let go of Bilbo’s hand and climbed atop a mound of gold coins to investigate a white-silvery glint at the top. It was not what he was looking for— instead, it was a necklace strung with diamonds as big as Bilbo’s fist. The dwarf scoffed, threw it aside, and returned to Bilbo. “I imagine he has it all buried somewhere, perhaps in the gold, like a cat. It will be an awful job to clean the place up. I would think you would be used to the scent, Bilbo, as you have been smelling it for the past two days or so.”

“You would think so, but now I am taking advantage of finally have someone to complain to.”

Bilbo was no longer alone in the Treasure Room. Once the dwarves were assured that there was no dragon in the Mountain, they were happy to clamber down there with Bilbo. Every one of them had a torch in hand, and they were plucking their way delightedly through the mass amounts of gold and gems. Thorin was the first one to come down, and he very quickly grabbed Bilbo’s hand and led him on a tour of the place.

Granted, there was not much to see. Much of it was the same. It was a large room, absolutely filled with gold and silver and precious gems, and Bilbo was not moved by any of it. He had gotten his fill of looking upon treasure when he had been down in the Treasure Room with Smaug. He was still worried about the dragon, and had no interest to run his fingers through gold coins or try on flashy rings and diadems. And it was hard not to feel guilty, watching Thorin look so eagerly for his Arkenstone, when it was, as of about ten minutes ago, sitting so heavily in his pocket.

Every few minutes, Thorin would stop in his search for his jewel to offer Bilbo something precious he found in the mound, or on the wall. The dwarf would place them on his beloved, admiring the sight, and Bilbo would immediately get flustered and take whatever it was off, pressing it back into Thorin’s hands. That did not deter the dwarf, however. It simply made him more fierce and determined to find the perfect thing to gift him. Golden bracelets and rings, studded with emeralds. A delicate torque, cast in silver. On one occasion, Thorin found a gold broad collar so encrusted with diamonds and rubies that it made Bilbo lose his balance on the shifting coin of the treasure mound, making the hobbit fall most painfully on his burns.

Thorin made sure to give him only the more delicate pieces after that.

The dwarf eventually found a perfect piece for a hobbit: a circlet wrought from gleaming silver wire. The wire, as it twisted and turned, created the shapes of interwoven leaves and flowers. A rare and precious pearl was strung on the wire so that it would rest just above the wearer’s brow. It had been made for some member of an elvish royal house, but it suited the hobbit very nicely. Bilbo tried batting the gift away, but Thorin eventually had it settled over the hobbit’s coily hair and pointed ears.

“It _is_ lovely,” Bilbo admitted, flicking at the pearl on his forehead. He tried screwing up his eyes to get a good look at it— pearls were a rare thing, even in the Shire, so close to the sea. He glanced at Thorin, waiting for a response, but the dwarf never did say anything. He just gazed at Bilbo with a peculiar look in his dark, slanting eyes. Something fierce and burning and strange was in their depths. Bilbo felt himself becoming overwhelmed and he looked away, over Thorin’s shoulder. His eyes found Fíli and Kíli instead.

They had pulled two magnificent harps off the wall, and were playing a merry tune. Some of the Company were listening along, singing and clapping. Most were still too preoccupied by the treasure to notice anything that was not gold or studded with gems. Bilbo had not heard such a lively tune since Lake-town, and he tapped his foot (gently, as it was still burned) along with the music.

“Look at me,” said Thorin, over the song. Bilbo raised his eyes, and this time, he did not look away. There was something in the dwarf’s look that left the hobbit transfixed. It was not the usual fond look dancing in his eyes, the one so often reflected in Bilbo’s eyes. It was something different: the heavy and fierce look of a King, a dwarf-lord blessed with a vast hoard. Something about the gold in the Treasure Room had changed all the dwarves, not just Thorin. There was just something different there. He was not sure if he liked it.

As Fíli and Kíli played their melody, Bilbo did not protest as Thorin dressed him up. Soon, along with his circlet, he also had rings on almost every finger, a necklace of pearls, ear cuffs, and a belt of silver wire and crystal. There were pearls strung on that, as well. Once he was all bedecked, Thorin gave the hobbit a once-over.

“I would have you in twice as much jewelry, and in richer clothing, but this is enough for now. It is breathtaking, all the same.” Thorin still had the strange look in his eyes, but his smile was familiar enough. Bilbo was about to brush off the compliment, and perhaps return the necklace of pearls (it was rather extravagant), but Thorin stopped him with a finger to his lips. “Fíli! Kíli! My sister-sons!” he called. His command boomed, and filled the chamber with its sound. “Play louder!”

The harp music swelled and increased in tempo, and suddenly, Bilbo found himself swept up into the arms of a King.

“Come! Dance with me, Bilbo.”

Bilbo was struck again by how curious and bold Thorin had become with treasure in his grasp, and he did not even think to question was Thorin was up to. He was simply caught up in the dwarf's eyes, and the feeling of strong hands resting on his hips. Many years later, when Bilbo thought back on the Quest and his experiences with Thorin, he found the moment less fond of a memory than it could have been. It was not a genteel or courtly dance. Nor was it the simple celebration that was a Shire reel. Rather, it was the revelling of a strange King, held captive by the thought of his glittering hoard and a white gem.

None of that even crossed Bilbo’s mind as they danced, however. His world was lit in a warm, golden glow. He quickly complied with Thorin’s request. He stood on the tips of his toes atop the dwarf’s feet and let Thorin wrap his arms around his waist. Together they swayed and spun, Thorin’s boots travelling across the gold. As they moved, the dwarf dipped Bilbo, and the circlet dropped off of his head as he came dangerously close to the ground. Thorin laughed loudly, unmindful of the lost headband,  and pulled the hobbit back up, close to his chest. Bilbo threw his head back and laughed as well, clinging tightly to Thorin.

The dwarf did not stop the dance when the music ended. Fíli and Kíli continued to play as Thorin halted suddenly. In his dance, he and Bilbo had wound their way to a part of the Treasure Room that was mostly void of gold. Instead, it was filled with weapons and armor. There were bright-tipped spears, gleaming swords, wickedly sharp axes, and exquisitely carved bows. Lined along the wall were scores of helmets, their cheek and nose-guards etched with protective runes. There were uncountable coats of mail, and hundreds of sets of leather and plate armor: enough armaments to outfit an entire dwarf-army.

Thorin, looking at the armor with his mouth agape, pushed Bilbo away from him absentmindedly. He went about arming himself. Bilbo watched silently, and a touch uncomfortably, as the dwarf searched for armor that was suitable for a King.

Very quickly had Thorin’s mood turned.

Slowly, the rest of the Company joined the search. Eventually, all of them had on fine armor, and elaborate helms atop their heads. Everyone had found a belt and a splendid weapon to go along with it. Thorin looked especially resplendent in a coat of gold-plated rings. He had a silver-hafted axe at his hip, sheathed and hung on a belt absolutely covered in deep scarlet stones. In his hands he held a corslet even finer than the one he wore himself.

“My dearest Bilbo!” he cried. The dwarf was back in his good humors. “You would not accept my other gifts; I insist you take this one. Cast off your old coat, and put on this!”

It was a small coat of mail, and it was one of the most precious things within the Mountain (though Bilbo was definitely unaware of that— otherwise he would have refused it). Wrought of silver-steel, which the elves call mithril, it was far too extravagant for a simple Shireling. But, of course, in Thorin’s eyes, Bilbo was much more than that. He was his hobbit, the One who had reclaimed his Mountain (the dwarf had quite forgotten the fact that Smaug still lived, consumed as he was by the glow of the treasure hoard). Thorin did not see a simple country hobbit, dressed in some sort of absurd costume. He saw a warrior, armed with clever words, a sword, and a remarkable ring.

Along with the coat, Thorin insisted Bilbo keep the belt he had pressed to him earlier, the one of crystal and pearls. To complete his armament, Thorin gave Bilbo a helm of dark leather. The inside of it was lined with hoops of steel, and about the brow and cheeks were bright white gems.

“It is magnificent,” Bilbo said, looking down at the coat of rings he was wearing. “But I am sure I look ridiculous.”

Thorin shook his head. “You look perfect,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Thorin did not forget any part of his home, and he led the Company effortlessly through dark and ruined pathways and up flights of finely cut stairs. Occasionally he would explain what a hall or chamber was used for back when the Mountain was still inhabited, but mostly he kept silent. He took in the destruction of his home a second time, silent but for his steady breathing and the constant step of his feet. The fey mood that gripped the dwarf in the Treasure Room had faded a little in the presence of the shell of the Lonely Mountain. There was still a dragon to deal with. The Mountain was not quite reclaimed yet.

Bilbo walked beside the dwarf, struggling to keep up. Usually he could keep up with Thorin’s strides, but he was tired, hungry, and sore. His burns had not healed much, and his stomach felt like it was gnawing at his insides. He did not carry a torch like the rest of the Company. Instead, Bilbo held onto Thorin’s hand and allowed the dwarf to lead him through seemingly endless stone chambers and up smoothly cut stairs.

Bilbo’s legs were short, and not meant for climbing dwarf-stairs for hours upon end. Just when he felt as if he could not go on any longer, Thorin led him up one final flight of stairs and into a chamber. This room was much larger than any other they had been in yet, and its ceiling stretched far beyond the reach of the Company’s torch-light. Somewhere far above, sunlight glittered. Ahead of them, sunlight found its way inside the Mountain through a set of burned and twisted doors.

“This is the great chamber of my grandfather,” said Thorin; “the hall of feasting and of council. We are approaching the Front Gate.”

They passed through the ruined chamber, and Bilbo shuddered at what he saw. Thorin tightened the grip on his hand when he felt him tremble. Finely carved chairs and benches were knocked over, charred and pitted by fire. The bones of dwarves not lucky enough to escape the Mountain were spread along the floor, amongst flagons and broken drinking-horns and dust. The smell of dragon and dragon-fire was strong, and Bilbo’s desire to leave the chamber was so strong that he felt a renewal of strength in his hobbit-legs.

At last, they crossed the Great Hall, and exited through a set of doors. In the next room, from an opening in the rock, came the frothing waters of the River Running. It flowed not wildly, like a river did on the outside, but rather, it flowed through a narrow carved channel, made straight and deep by the Lonely Mountain’s dwarves. Beside it ran a wide, sett-paved road. They were very close to the Front Gate now, and Thorin led the Company swiftly down the path, and around a wide-sweeping turn. As soon as they came past the turn, there was the light of the Sun.

The Front Gate’s doors were long gone, but still standing was a carved arch, its keystone almost impossibly high. The thing was worn and blackened with dragon-fire and the passage of time, but still Bilbo could spy fine carvings in the stone. It was a cloudy day, and the Sun shined gently through the cover, casting beams of gold over the threshold of the Mountain.

The Company stood there for a while, silently. They cast aside their torches, and gazed out upon the ruined city of Dale.

Bilbo dropped Thorin’s hand, and crossed his arms. It was rather chilly outside the Mountain, and he put his hands beneath his armpits to warm them up.

“Well,” the hobbit said, “I never expected to look out of this door, at least, not so soon. And I never supposed that I would be this pleased to see the Sun again, and to feel the wind on my face. But, ow! this wind is freezing!”

And it was. A wind from the East was blowing savagely, telling the tale of oncoming winter. It flowed among the rocks, creating a sighing song.

Then, Bilbo saw that the dwarves were looking upon him for direction, as they had been doing on the doorstep and in the Mountain itself. “I suppose it is more or less breakfast time— if there is any breakfast to be had. I say we go somewhere safe and quiet where we can eat.”

“Quite right!” said Balin. “We are all awfully hungry. And I know just the way we should go: we ought to make for the old look-out post at the South-West end of the Mountain.”

“How far away is that?”

Balin thought for a beat, then said, “Five hours march, I should think. It will be rough going, since the road from the Gate along the left edge of the river is all broken up. There was an old path, however, that once left the road and climbed up to the post. It will be a hard climb, even if the old steps are there. But it will be a private place, safe from the eyes of Smaug.”

No one in the Company felt much like climbing up more stairs for another second, especially without something to eat, but they saw the sense in finding somewhere that was somewhat safe from the dragon. That did not stop them from grumbling.

“Dear me,” said the hobbit. “More climbing without breakfast! I wonder how many breakfasts, and other meals besides, we have missed inside that nasty, clockless, timeless hole?”

Thorin laughed at that (his spirits had risen once they departed the great hall— he was once more in that almost euphoric state he had been in in the Treasure Room). He wrapped an arm carelessly around Bilbo, and tweaked his nose. “Come, dear Bilbo!” said Thorin. “Don’t call my palace a nasty hole! Just you wait till it has been cleaned and redecorated.”

“That won’t be till Smaug is dead,” said Bilbo glumly.

That sobered Thorin up very quickly.

 

* * *

 

A five hour hike is no good, not in any hobbit’s book. Especially if the hobbit writing the book was burned from head to toe, and had legs nowhere near long and lean enough to climb up endless dwarven steps and scramble over rocky ridges. A leisurely stroll through the rolling green hills of the Shire was no trek up a Mountain. None of Bilbo’s walking holidays through the Green Hill Country or the White Downs prepared him for climbing the Lonely Mountain.

After about three hours of quiet suffering, Thorin finally noticed how much Bilbo was struggling to keep up with his dwarf counterparts. Not listening to the hobbit’s protests that he could keep up, and how he just needed a short rest, Thorin stooped low to the ground, while the Company struggled onward.

"Come on, then," he said. "I will carry you for a while."

With difficulty, and a great deal of wincing (because of Bilbo’s burns), the hobbit was situated on Thorin’s back. Bilbo tried hard not to feel like a fauntling, as he swayed and swung with the movement of Thorin’s footsteps.

The dwarf’s fingers dug into his thighs, which made his burns protest, but it was still preferable to scrabbling over gravel and scrubby grass. The hobbit resolved that this would not last long. Once Thorin started breathing heavily, or stumbling with his weight, then he would remove himself. But Bilbo figured he would enjoy it as long as it lasted. He wrapped his arms around Thorin’s neck, and nosed at his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

The guard-post on Ravenhill was carved into the rock face on the South-West side of the Mountain. The post was comprised of two rooms: the main chamber, and then a smaller room set further into the rock. The Company reached it near midday, and as soon as Thorin declared that they would be staying there, at least for the next day, everyone immediately threw down their packs. Some of the Company went to the smaller rock-chamber, and laid down to sleep. Others sat up, talking and looking out at the view offered by the watchpost. It gave an excellent view to the South, East, and West, and always at least one pair of eyes looked in those directions, hoping to see where Smaug had flown off to.

Bilbo was one of the ones who slept. He had not gotten any sort of rest since they fled into the tunnel when Smaug destroyed the secret door. Somehow, he managed to close his eyes and doze despite all his worries and pain.

That night, Thorin sat at the doorway, casting his eyes into the dark for a glimmer and flash of a red wing. He was disappointed in that respect (as Smaug was already dead— though he did not know that), but was well pleased in another.

Sometime in the night, Bilbo joined Thorin in the doorway. They sat beside each other, shivering slightly in the cold, Bilbo’s legs swinging like a child’s over the dwarf-steps that led up to the doorway.

“I see you do not wince with your movement any longer,” said Thorin, in place of a greeting. His breath came out of his mouth in great white clouds. “Are your burns healing, then?”

Bilbo rubbed the back of his head— and winced at the feeling of his burned and bristly hair. “A lot of me still burns and throbs,” he said. “Smaug was certainly not gentle about it. But it does not hurt as much as it did.” That was lie, but it would make Thorin less bothered, perhaps.

“I am glad to hear that. I do wish we could have a spot of fire now. It is cold out here without cover for the wind.”

“It is freezing,” Bilbo corrected him. “But it is not so bad as the Fell Winter, as my poor toes have not threatened to fall off just yet (though Smaug’s fire almost took care of that).”

In Lake-town, they had been gifted with new clothing. But it was more suited to block out an autumn chill, rather than the frigid winds that were blowing down from the Mountain that night on Ravenhill. Still, Thorin’s was a kind gesture when he draped most of his cloak over Bilbo’s narrow and shaking shoulders.

“Perhaps it would have been wiser to stay in the Mountain,” said Thorin. “As the winter has crept upon us most suddenly. I would almost risk the dragon. Still, I prefer a chill to looking upon my grandfather’s Great Hall, such a state as it was in.”

“Tell me about the Great Hall,” said Bilbo. “When it was still used for celebration and council, as you said.”

“That room is where life in the Mountain was centered.” Thorin took a deep breath. “At any rate, life as I experienced it in the Mountain. At meal times, every place at the table was filled. My grandfather would sit at the table, my father at his right hand. We would eat, and drink, and speak of whatever came to mind.

“I listened to a great deal of politics in that room: my grandfather spoke of all important things over food and drink. My father would have to tug on my ear to pay attention every few minutes, distracted as I got as a dwarf-lad.”

“I do not believe it,” said Bilbo. “Thorin being distracted when Kingly things were happening. It sounds impossible.”

“Possible,” replied Thorin, “with my brother at my side.”

“You have a brother? Why did he not come on this journey?” Bilbo asked, curious.

“He died at Dimrill Dale.”

“Sorry,” said Bilbo. “I apologize, I wished to lighten your mind, with talk of the Great Hall. Not to make you recall painful things.”

“Not painful,” Thorin shook his head. “It is good to remember the Mountain when it was full of life. My brother and I knew what was expected of us, of course, but regardless of race and class, young lads will always do what is unexpected of them. We were always where we weren’t supposed to be, getting into the sort of situations princes had no business being involved in. Often we would skip lessons to go bother and tease my sister and her nursemaids.”

“You had a sister as well?”

“I _have_ a sister. Dís is still living,” Thorin said. “She resides in and oversees my halls in the Blue Mountains while we are on this venture. And then there are Fíli and Kíli, of course. That is all of my immediate family that lives. Do you have a family, Bilbo?”

Bilbo moved so he was closer to Thorin. “No siblings— and no parents. My old dad died about two years after I came of age. Mother died a few years later. I’ve been alone since then. I have a great deal of aunts, uncles, and cousins, though, just like any other hobbit. Extended family counts much for Shire folk, which is a shame, as one or two of mine are thoroughly terrible.” As an afterthought he added: “And I have no spouse, of course.”

“I remember the large families of the Shirelings,” said Thorin. “I would ask how you keep track of it all, but the Line of Durin is just as convoluted. Though we have no Longbottoms, Grubbs, Chubbs, or Proudfoots.”

“Proudfeet!” said Bilbo. “Now, we are in your home, Thorin. No need to talk about the Shire now. You have heard me speak about it at length, and now I would like to hear something from you. Tell me more of the Lonely Mountain.”

“I do not tire of your gentle speech, nor of the quaint ways of the Shire, but very well. I shall tell you more about the Great Hall. It was always filled with noise, bustle, and a great deal of light. There was a skylight (that Smaug blocked off, that worm!) and always a score of torches lit. Official audiences were held in the throne room, but unofficial audiences were always being held at the table, over a drink of the King’s own ale, usually. That table is where I had my first drink, you know. And my first pipe. I coughed most spectacularly on my first drag.

“Now, feast days are when the Great Hall was the most delightful to see. Drapery in the King’s colors hung all about the chamber, music playing, and everyone dressed in their finest robes and jewels. Food and drink were available to all in the Kingdom on our feast days, and it was an impressive sight to see all of Durin’s folk assembled in such a fashion.

“You can see now, Bilbo, why it was such a shock to see the Great Hall like that. Smaug truly destroyed all life within the Mountain. For that he must die," he ended in an angry voice.

“Er, yes,” said Bilbo. “Thorin, I have another question.” _‘If only to stop such black thoughts from being spoken aloud,’_ thought Bilbo.

“You may ask me anything, Bilbo, be it within my ability to answer.”

“I would just like to know if that chamber down in the roots of the Mountain was always the Treasure Room.”

“Firstly,” said Thorin. “That chamber is not quite what consists of the roots of the Mountain. It is the last formal chamber, yes, but below it are the great mines and forges of the Lonely Mountain. I suspect that the passages to reach them were too small for the worm to get into (which is excellent, as that means we may need to make less repairs and renovations to the Mountain). But yes, that was always the treasury. Often my grandfather could be found down there, gazing upon his wealth. A Kingly dwarf, my grandfather was.”

“Dwarves certainly love their treasure,” sighed Bilbo.

“And hobbits do not love it. Rather, you have your mathoms, and your simple brass buttons. Not that I find any fault in that quality of yours,” Thorin said, spotting Bilbo’s affronted face in the moonlight. “No one can be expected to value the riches of the earth as much as my people. I cannot make a hobbit value a treasure hoard as much as a dwarf could. Unless, of course…” Thorin trailed off, muttering something low under his breath.

Bilbo took Thorin’s hand in his, and frowned at how cold both of them were. “Unless what?” he asked.

“Have you ever heard of the Arkenstone? Do they speak of such things in the Shire?” Thorin asked.

His voice was different, suddenly. There was something in it that gave Bilbo chills, other than the ones he was feeling because of the cold. In some ways, the fashion in which the treasure affected the dwarves was pleasant. It made them merry, and curiously bold. It made them do things like suddenly grabbing a partner and dancing, or sing old drinking tunes. But it also made them fierce, passionate, and a touch overwhelming.

Thorin seized Bilbo’s other hand, and leaned their heads together, conspiratorially. No longer did they sit with their legs over the lip of the stair. They sat with legs folded, facing each other. Thorin was hunched over a great deal, so that he could match Bilbo’s height.

“The Arkenstone.” Thorin was whispering now. “The King’s Jewel. I have mentioned it before, you know.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo quietly, feeling his blood leave his face and gather somewhere near his stomach. He was suddenly very nervous, and very aware of the heavy stone in his pocket. “You mentioned it. A white jewel, that glows and throws off light like the Moon.”

“The symbol of my family’s right to rule. The symbol to my throne. Bilbo,” said Thorin. “I must have it, you know. My grandfather knew well, and he was as Kingly as any dwarf could ever be: the Arkenstone is the most important thing in the Mountain. It has been since Thráin I delved into the Mountain, and found its heart. I need the jewel, Bilbo, to show my leadership, my right to rule.”

“Well, firstly we need to be rid of Smaug, eh, Thorin?” said Bilbo. He smiled at the dwarf. He hoped that nothing in his face would betray him. He hoped the dwarf could not see any lumps in his pockets. “Can't get to the stone without dealing with the dragon first! Come, do let’s stop being so incensed.”

“Smaug.” Thorin shook his head angrily. “You spoke with him— you heard him call himself the King Under the Mountain. The Arkenstone could solve that. Having the Heart of the Mountain would aid me. Us.”

“It is just a rock,” Bilbo pointed out. “Correct? How can the Arkenstone solve the issue of Smaug?” The hobbit fought the itch to tear one of his hands away from Thorin to rest it instead on the stone, to keep it from this dwarf that would take it away from him.

When Thorin could not come up with an answer to Bilbo’s question, the hobbit smiled and bumped him with his forehead. He held himself there, their noses touching. “We have seen no sign of Smaug tonight. Let us stop all this talk of him, and move on to happier things. I have had enough of despair in the midst of all this desolation. The Mountain is almost yours, my heart. Tell me more of your home.”

Thorin closed his eyes happily. “You are a sweet thing, to be so curious; to keep asking. But of course, it shall soon be your home as well.” Bilbo was shocked by the thought that appeared in his head when he heard the first part of that statement: that he was a little frightened of the way Thorin would react if he acted any differently. That is, if he acted as if something was wrong, if he stopped blithely acting as if all was well. The dwarf was becoming very fierce, and not acting altogether himself, ever since he stood in the golden light of the Treasure Room. But Bilbo had been dwelling on all this for some time, and that thought was quickly chased out by another one: the Lonely Mountain would be his home after all this, if he indeed courted this King in front of him. Through so much of the journey to the place, the only thing that kept him going was the thought of Bag-End. At journey’s end, it would be waiting for him, comfortable and familiar. But then, of course, he had not been involved in any sort of way with a dwarf ruler when he had entertained his thoughts of the Shire. He could not return, not then. This thought did not surprise the hobbit, though it certainly would have a mere four or five months before.

Bilbo would not leave Thorin, not while the dwarf still cared for him. A thousand lazy mornings in the Shire would never compare to the embrace and gentle touch of this dwarf he had found over the running of the quest. The Shire was his home, and he yearned for it, but perhaps the Mountain could become his second home. He desired a place full of comfort and memory, somewhere warm and pleasant and full of his favorite things. And perhaps the Mountain could become that, someday.

Bilbo did not voice any of this. He just smiled and rubbed his thumb over Thorin’s knuckles. From the upwelling of fondness in his chest, Bilbo found the solution to his earlier thought. There was an easy way to get the Thorin he was missing to come back. Get the dwarf to think of anything that was not concerning the quest, or gold, or the Arkenstone, and he was the same as he had always been. “What do you wish to hear?” Thorin asked.

As the dwarf spoke, Bilbo was suddenly aware of how close the two of them were on the doorstep. He could feel and see the white cloud of Thorin’s breath puffing between them, ghosting over his lips. He smelled him, or perhaps he smelled himself: the scent of dragon and dragon fire, and something faint and bitter like old weed, or stale sweat. Not altogether pleasant, but Bilbo still smiled. He was shockingly close to Thorin, close enough to experience the good and the bad.

“Your grandfather had a Queen, I have been led to believe? You had a grandmother? Tell me, what were her duties?”

Thorin’s beard twitched. “Come, be forthwith and say you are curious as to what your duties will be, once we finish courting.” Bilbo smiled and waited for Thorin to speak. This was the dwarf he wanted to see: this was the Thorin he had sat with in Beorn’s garden. The dwarf that held his hand and stroked his hair deep in the dungeons of Mirkwood. The one who comforted him when he was ill, and held him close before he went into the dark unknown. “My grandmother ruled by my grandfather’s side as much as Thráin, my father, did. She oversaw the court, and kept up the appearances of the royal family. You would be expected to sit in on the council, and also to see over cultural and diplomatic dealings. My sister, once she arrives, would help with that business, since you are not wholly familiar with Durin’s folk. Mostly, however, your job would be to stand by my side, to support me and as this is not a political match,” here, Thorin looked right into Bilbo’s eyes. The hobbit once again shivered, and again, not because of the chill of the night. They really were rather close together; “perhaps to love me.”

“It sounds like a manageable enough job,” Bilbo said breathlessly. “Thorin, I wonder if it is proper—”

“To do what, Master Baggins?”

“I should like to kiss you.”

Thorin looked at Bilbo like he was not quite sure what was just said. But then a smile crept upon his face, making the lines around his eyes crinkle. “Certainly not proper, not for a soon-to-be King, nor for a Gentlehobbit of the Shire. But if you must know, I have not a single quarrel with it.”

That was all Bilbo needed to hear. He closed the last inch or two between them, tilting his head— to accommodate Thorin’s rather large and long nose— and he kissed him.

And as far as kisses go, it was a chaste thing. The meeting of lips, nothing more. Bilbo thought it was all rather bristly, but not wholly unpleasant. (The hobbit had never kissed anyone with a beard before, unless you count the required familial pecks he once gave to his grandfather Gerontius. The old hobbit had had a singular hair that he sometimes grew upon his chin). The kiss was short, perhaps because Bilbo was smiling too broadly to do much of anything else with his lips. As he drew back from Thorin, he kissed the dwarf once more on his scarred cheek.

“Not proper at all,” said Bilbo hoarsely.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Bilbo once more looked out upon the ruined lands that lay spread before the Mountain. Or, to be more correct, he watched the skies. A remarkable amount of birds flew through the air over the desolation, creating a loud cacophony of cries and song. The hobbit, and the rest of the Company as well, had been watching the birds all morning, but now they were looking for one bird in particular: an old thrush. The very same old thrush, in fact, that had earlier been eating snails on the doorstep.

The bird had listened in to Balin and Bilbo’s conversation that morning, and immediately flew off once Balin mentioned the old ravens that once lived about the Mountain. Bilbo was watching, as Balin had told him to, to see what the thrush would do next.

As the thrushes around the Lonely Mountain are capable of speaking Common, the old bird knew that it needed to go find one of the old ravens. When the thrush returned to the watch-post on Ravenhill, flying next to him was a rather old, large, and decrepit looking raven. The birds eyes were in the process of having its eyes cloud over with blindness, it could hardly keep itself aloft, and the top of its head was losing all its feathers. Still, it carried itself with an air of honor. That is because it was a raven of very high standing, a raven of the Lonely Mountain.

The bird landed very stiffly, and bobbed its way slowly toward Thorin. Bilbo was very surprised when the bird opened its mouth to caw, and began to speak instead. Here is what he said:

“Hear me, Thorin son of Thráin, and Balin son of Fundin. I am Roäc son of Carc. My father is dead, but I know that he was well known to you once. It has been a hundred years and fifty-three since I came out of the egg; I never knew any dwarf hailing from the Lonely Mountain, but I do not forget what my father told me of the mighty folk who once lived here. Now I am the chief of the great ravens of the Mountain. We are few, but we remember still the King that was of old. Most of my people are abroad, for there is great news arriving from the South— some are tidings of joy, and some you will think not so good.

“Behold! the birds are gathering back again to the Mountain and to Dale from South and East and West, for word has gone out that Smaug is dead!”

“Dead! Dead?” shouted the Company. “He is dead? Then we have been in needless fear— and the treasure is ours!”

“The treasure is ours,” repeated Thorin, wonder in his voice. He did not caper about as like the other dwarves, but he did laugh in his clear, strong voice, and cast an arm about Bilbo.

“Yes, dead,” croaked Roäc. “The thrush, may his feathers never fall, saw him shot from the sky. The beast fell in battle with the men of Esgaroth, three moons past.”

After that, Thorin had some trouble getting his Company to stay quiet. They were jumping about, hugging, and crying with joy. Bilbo was just as excited of course, but he was not so loud about it. He clapped and cheered, of course, but he did no impromptu jig, though he strongly felt the urge to. The heavy weight of Thorin’s arm over his shoulder kept him still. Bilbo at first did not realize at first why Thorin could stand so calm at such joyous news, but then he realized: the dwarf was still waiting for Roäc to finish his tale.

Eventually, everyone calmed down enough, and the raven delivered the story of the battle. Bilbo thought it all very impressive, something out of a tale Gandalf might have shared around a campfire one night. He wished he had had words with the courageous man that was Bard, while they were in Lake-town. He wished he could have seen Smaug, the beast that had taunted him in waking and in his dreams, finally fall. He was not sure, however, if he wanted to see the old worm lying dead at the bottom of the Lake, as Roäc described him. Much as the creature had tormented him, he had no wish to go and gloat over the body.

Once the raven ended his tale, Thorin allowed himself his celebration. He pulled Bilbo closer, and clasped Balin’s arm tightly. Roäc made a curious clicking noise at the shining light in Thorin’s eyes— something not unlike the disapproving _tut_ that Bilbo’s remarkable mother once had perfected.

“So much for joy, Thorin Oakenshield,” said the bird. Thorin’s eyes hardened; he tightened his grip on Bilbo. “You may go back to your halls in safety; all the treasure is yours— for the moment. Many are gathering hither beside the birds. The news of the death of Smaug has already gone far and wide, and none have forgotten the tale of your grandfather’s gold; many are eager for a share of the spoil. Already a host of the Woodland Elves is on the way, and carrion birds go with them, hoping for battle and slaughter. By the lake, men murmur that their sorrows are due to the dwarves; for they are homeless, and many of them have died, as Smaug has destroyed their home. They too think to find amends from your treasure, whether you are alive or whether you are dead.

“Your own wisdom, Thorin Oakenshield, must decide your course; but thirteen is a small remnant of the great folk of Durin that once dwelt within the Mountain, and now you are scattered far. If you will listen to my counsel, as your grandfather once did with my father, you will not trust the Master of the Lake-men, but rather he that killed Smaug. They call him Bard, of the line of Girion, he is a grim man but true of heart. I and my people would see peace once more among dwarves and men and elves after the long desolation; but to find it may cost you dear in gold. I have spoken.”

Anger flashed in Thorin’s eyes, and he roughly released Bilbo. He pointed at Roäc with the hand that had been holding Bilbo.

“Our thanks, Roäc Carc’s son. You and your people shall not be forgotten.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “But none of our gold shall thieves take or the violent carry off while we are alive.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin's tryst comes to a bad end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is over! Thanks everyone for sticking around and reading! Keep in mind that this is the chapter where thearchive warnings I put up go into effect... Enjoy :^)

Thorin led the way back down the Mountain, speedily making his way back to the Front Gate. He held Bilbo’s hand with his own, but he did not have a care to see whether or not the hobbit was keeping up. Too consumed, he was, with the thought of his gold lying alone, unguarded.

 

* * *

 

“The Lonely Mountain. It is ours,” Thorin said, standing under the arch that remained of the Front Gate.

“Yours, really,” said Bilbo.

“Mine,” Thorin agreed. He pulled Bilbo close to him, holding him against his chest. The dwarf breathed deeply in relief once inside the Mountain. Finally, it was his. He nosed at the coarse and burned hair at the back of Bilbo’s head in a tender gesture. His gentle manner fell away quickly. Lifting his head, he loudly began to bark out orders. Everyone was to scout out the various entrances to the Mountain, and to make sure they were all sealed.

Everyone, that is, except for himself and Bilbo.

“There are six entrances to the Lonely Mountain. She is shaped like a six-pointed star, with six spurs that come out from her skirts.” Thorin paused, peering into a room on his left. Whatever he saw was not what he was searching for; he frowned and kept walking. For once, during their time in the Mountain, Thorin walked slow enough for Bilbo to keep up. The dwarf was enjoying himself immensely— enough to walk at a leisurely pace and help Bilbo up the stairs. “There is a door between each spur, as well as a guard-post. Then, of course, there is the secret entrance, so that makes seven entrances. I figure that two dwarves to inspect each door, discounting the secret one, as it is already destroyed, is good enough. They do not need us.”

“You do not have to explain yourself to me, Thorin,” said Bilbo. He adjusted the grip on his torch, and lifted it higher above his head to avoid the smoke. “I would much rather have a tour by you than look at some old doors. Now, where is it that we are going?”

“I thought to show you the royal quarters, as they are not so far away from the Great Hall. Perhaps the Company could sleep in there once we ensure the Mountain is sealed, and safe from all those brigands on their way.” Bilbo did not like much the way Thorin referred to the starving Lake-men, and their elven allies, but he did not say so. “At first, I was going to show you the Mountain’s Chamber of Records, as I recall your home being filled with many a book and scroll. But that will take a great many dwarf-stair to reach, and I do not believe you are quite up to the task. And I fear that some of the ancient architecture of this place may be crumbled far beyond safe use; I would not risk it, just to show you some old books written in a tongue you do not speak.”

“I would like to see it one day, anyhow,” said Bilbo. “But thank you for thinking of my feet, and my hobbit-legs.” Thorin smiled, and Bilbo liked to think that he held his hand even tighter. “Did you know, Thorin, that I’ve been thinking about writing a story about all this?”

“The tales of this journey are already in the process of being recorded, no doubt, in the dwarven tongue, as well as Common speech. However,” declared Thorin; “I will treasure your word above those of a poet or scholar. I did not know you wrote any,” finished the dwarf lamely.

“It is nothing to make a fuss about. A Gentlehobbit has little to do, generally, so I started writing as a way to pass the time. Poems and songs, mostly. You’ve heard some of them, and doubtless you will hear more, as courtship will make you my captive audience. At any rate, I have never written anything quite of the magnitude of this quest, and that is just of the bit that has happened so far. I have a feeling yet that the last chapter has not come to pass.”

“What is it about my palace that makes you so despondent, dear heart? Why do you act so, when the purpose of our journey is finally fulfilled?”

“It is not your palace so much as it is the armed elven host I expect at your door. It will come any day now, you see, and I do not know how well I will do under that sort of stress. Now that you mention it, however, it is rather dark in this place. Perhaps a skylight would make my mood a touch brighter.”

“Not many dwarf palaces boast great holes in their sturdy roofs, lest they be naturally occurring. That was no negative answer, Bilbo, and do not frown so. The Lonely Mountain can be one of the first. As soon as we are rid of the thieves who think to steal from me, Dáin’s folk will aid in the restoration and redecorating of the Mountain. They will see about your skylight, I’m sure.”

“I am glad to hear it. Now, Thorin, how much longer shall we be walking? And do you think we could stop for luncheon soon? Though all I have is a bit of cram in my pocket, I would like to stop and eat it sometime soon.”

Thorin did not say anything. Instead, he led Bilbo up one last flight of stairs, and past a series of dingy and moldy looking tapestries. At the top of the stairs was a set of heavy stone doors. The doors were carved elaborately, and faintly gleamed. Hundreds of years of dust and grime masked the precious stones set into the door and the gold inlaid into the seams.

“More dwarf doors,” said Bilbo. “What say these? Do you need a password, or a queer little ceremony to open ‘em up?”

“Nay,” said Thorin. “The only thing that kept these doors closed were two outfitted guards, each with a silver-hafted axe. And even then, no dwarf would go in during the reign of Thrór; few would risk the consequences. On the doors, there,” (here he pointed); “you can still see the picture that once gleamed, depicted in polished and precious stones. There is the sign of my house: a crown of seven stars.”

“To show that the rulers of Durin’s folk live within?”

“You guess well, Bilbo. Through these doors are the royal quarters. And to answer your former question, we can eat within. I will light the torches, and we shall have a little picnic. Though feasting was done in the Great Hall, the ruling family often had meals in the privacy of their own quarters.”

Then, Thorin let go of Bilbo’s hand and pushed on the doors. They were no secret entrance. They were a pair of well-made dwarven doors. As a result, they swung in soundlessly, lifting up clouds of dust into the air. Bilbo coughed as Thorin walked in, lifting his torch high over his head.

They walked for a while in silence. Bilbo wanted to stop every three steps, to take everything in. Finely carved statues, set into walls. The ceiling was carved with skill, in varying geometric shapes. Nothing resembled anything living, most unlike the art of the Shire. Still, it was all very beautiful, in its exotic and interesting patterns. Tapestries, eaten away by time, hung damp on almost every wall. Every few paces, a door was carved into the stone. Bilbo itched to peer inside and see what sort of things dwarf royalty kept in their rooms, how folk of such high standards lived, but still Thorin walked on. To stop himself from getting distracted by every little thing he saw, Bilbo kept his eyes on his feet. To his delight, even the floors were beautiful. They were paved straight, and inlaid with glittering stones of blue and white and green. They reflected the light of Thorin’s torch, and threw multi-colored spots along the walls and across Bilbo’s feet.

“It is beautiful in here,” said Bilbo. He looked up, and just in time, too. Otherwise he would have run right into Thorin’s back. The dwarf had finally stopped, and he faced an indentation in the wall. Bilbo made to grab Thorin’s hand, but before he could, it was lifted to brush away cobwebs. They were everywhere in the Mountain, of course, but now was the first time Thorin made a move to wipe them away. They had wrapped around a granite statue of a stately looking dwarf.

The statue had Thorin’s nose, and the same tattoos. Still, they were different. The dwarf wore more jewelry in his ears and nose, and had more chains wrapped about his neck. His eyebrows were not nearly as bushy as Thorin’s, though his beard was twice as long. The clear difference was in the hard look in the eyes, and the harsh set of the lip.

“Thrór, King Under the Mountain,” said Thorin. He turned to Bilbo. “A dwarf of all dwarves, yet still he lost this place.”

“You won’t. You shall lose me before you lose this Mountain.” Bilbo stepped closer to Thorin, and lifted up his free hand to the dwarf’s face. He traced the hard line of his cheek, and the wrinkles that lined his eyes. Thorin’s beard twitched. The direct light of the torch cast his face in sharp relief, but Bilbo ignored the shadows. “And you will never lose me,” he said.

“Never is a strong word to come from such a small creature.”

“Well, I mean it. I would not be parted from you, not from any action of my own. I would swear it, had I anything to swear by. Now, you will have some more strong words from me if we do not have that luncheon soon, and I mean that, too!”

“I believe you,” said Thorin, with a bit more cheer than he had before Bilbo had said his piece. “Come, it is not that much longer of a walk.”

 

* * *

 

It was not much of a picnic, but it was made into a grand event by the setting and the company Bilbo had. The dining chamber could have sat fourteen formally, and even more, had someone wanted to place extra chairs along to the table’s edge. It had been dark and dismal when they first entered, but Thorin relit the lamps lining the walls (they still, somehow, had oil in them), and everything was lit merrily thereafter. Thorin entertained Bilbo with stories of the dwarves who once made their busy way about the royal quarters, holding his hand over the finely carved table. Often he would sit back, and just gaze at Bilbo in the golden light of room, watching the hobbit glow golden-brown in his too-big seat.

Thorin looked every bit a King, sitting at the head of the table in his gold-washed mail and fine woven cloak. He poured the tepid water from his waterskin into jeweled goblets, and his dark eyes glittered at Bilbo over the gilded rim of the chalice. The way the dwarf sat as he ate his cram, Bilbo could imagine he was instead feasting on finely roasted lamb, and drinking the finest vintage wine.

The effect was a bit ruined every time he tasted the dry waybread, but not so much that he totally dismissed the image. He rather liked imagining Thorin as the King he could— would— be.

“Are you finished?” asked Thorin abruptly, just as he finished a tale about a rather clumsy manservant.

“Er,” said Bilbo. “Yes. I’m done eating, anyway. Why?”

“I want to search the Treasure Room for a while, before the Company gathers once more at the Front Gate.”

“What for?”

“The Arkenstone,” said Thorin, impatiently. “I want it within my grasp before the invaders arrive. And it will take some time to search through all the gold my grandfather amassed, as you pointed out before. I was going to ask you if you knew the way back to the Front Gate yourself.”

Bilbo looked down at the table, and traced a small gouge in it with his fingernail. He did not want to meet the dwarf’s eyes, as he thought Thorin might be able to see guilt somewhere in their depths. He hoped his hand was not sweating with nerves, as Thorin was holding it, and would surely notice. The King’s Jewel was, thankfully, no longer inside his breeches. Instead, it was wrapped in a bundle of rags, which was functioning as his pillow. Still, he was beginning to feel a bit guilty about keeping the jewel from Thorin. Perhaps he would have given it to Thorin, had it still been in his pocket. At least, that was what the hobbit told himself.

“If I knew the way back to the gate, I would not go. I would help you look,” said Bilbo. “My eyes are keener than yours, you know.”

For a brief time, Bilbo felt almost that Thorin would kiss him again. He leaned closer to him, across the table, and something fierce alighted in his eyes. The dwarf just smiled, however, and squeezed Bilbo’s hand.

“It would not take keen eyes to spot the Arkenstone,” said he. “It shines like a star, or the pale Moon: it would take just one torchbearer to find it. Once light is cast upon the stone, it glints with a thousand beams of white radiance.

“Still, I accept your offer. Come, let us leave this place.”

And just like that, Thorin seemed to forget all the fondness he once had for the room. He extinguished the lamps quickly, ignoring their finely wrought shape. He left the jeweled chalices on the table, and paid no mind to the carvings on the walls, the ones he had described so fondly for Bilbo in Rivendell. All was forgotten, in the imagined light of the Arkenstone.

 

* * *

 

“Should we go?” Bilbo called out. Thorin had wandered away earlier, saying that Bilbo was searching his section of the chamber well enough on his own. (Which was a bit funny, as Bilbo was not putting any effort into searching. He stooped low, and picked up things to inspect them, sure. But he was going at such a slow pace that it was as if he was not searching at all. He snorted when Thorin complimented him, but the dwarf could not hear him over the sounds of gold coins clinking together.) Now all the hobbit could see of him was the small pinprick of his torch, which bobbed slowly as the dwarf climbed over his treasure. “Surely the Company wonders where we are!”

It took Thorin a while to make his way back to Bilbo’s side. Once he got close enough for the hobbit to see his face, Bilbo saw that the dwarf looked almost wrathful. “I suppose that means you haven’t found the stone either?” Bilbo shook his head. “I will find it. I should command the whole of the Company to search down here, so that it may be delivered to my hands within hours.”

“There are perhaps better things the Company could do to prepare for the armies that are approaching, Thorin. You would do well to listen to Röac’s words, I would say. But you are their King, and I doubt they will listen to me much for orders anymore, so do whatever you see fit. Anyway, whatever the Company will be commanded to do, they cannot receive orders until we go and join them at the Front Gate. So do let us go.”

Thorin thought that he would stay, and Bilbo could see the idea in the calculated gaze the dwarf gave his treasure. The hobbit was going to get Thorin to come to the Front Gate, however, even if he had to drag him bodily up the countless dwarf-stairs it took to get there. He grabbed Thorin’s hand and tugged, pulling the dwarf out of his musings.

“Why are you in a hurry?” asked Thorin. He pulled his hand out of Bilbo’s grasp, and instead threaded his arm through the hobbit’s. Together they plucked their way out of the Treasure Room. “What awaits you at the Front Gate that has you so eager?”

“Balin has some wrinkled old apple slices in his pack that I have been wanting to burgle,” said Bilbo cheekily.

Thorin laughed at that. “I am pleased to hear that your hobbit appetite still lives on. We had luncheon mere minutes ago, my dear, and already you crave more. I would not have you burgle, however, not anymore. I have my gold, and you never have to steal a thing again. You may have whatever you like— so long as you do not eat my treasury into ruin.”

The apples were the easiest lie to tell. The hobbit, of course, did not want a snack so strongly that he was willing to walk for hours, to climb stairs for it. What he wanted was to have Thorin stop talking about the Arkenstone so often. Everytime the dwarf mentioned it, Bilbo was feeling an increasing amount of guilt. And as long as they were in the Treasure Room, Thorin would continue to dwell on it. He would continue speaking of it, and Bilbo would not always be able to hide his shifty eyes. At least outside of the vast chamber, Thorin could be distracted by other things.

It was hard work to walk from the roots of the Mountain up to the Front Gate, but Bilbo found it was not so dreadful the second time around, since on the second trip upwards, Thorin was actually speaking to him. He wondered if his legs were getting used to the arduous climb, and shuddered to think that the stairs might do away with the last bit of fat he still had around his middle.

Perhaps he did need something to eat.

Another walk through the Great Hall, and a stroll along the River Running, had the two once again at the Front Gate. Balin, Dwalin, Nori, Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur were the only pairs who had made it back so far. Thorin told Bilbo that he would not be making any orders until everyone was there, and then took back that statement.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “An command from your King: I order you to go and get those apple slices you so desire, Master Baggins.”

He was in good humor, and spoke in a teasing manner: it seemed that at least three entrances to the Mountain were destroyed already.

“Certainly, my King,” said Bilbo, mimicking Thorin’s tone. He bobbed and bowed, and waved an imaginary hood in front of his knees, obviously making fun of how Thorin had introduced himself at Beorn’s home. Only once he had startled a laugh out of the dwarf did Bilbo talk to Balin.

 

* * *

 

“Where are we going?” asked Bilbo.

“A further tour of the Mountain. If we hurry, we can catch another sight of Fíli and Kíli before they go over the rise at the Southern spur.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” grumbled Bilbo. For all his protest, he still let Thorin pull him along, up more dwarf-stairs than he cared to count.

Thorin showed him rather than told him. He took him up to the battlements. They were high up on the Mountain, and were accessed by a low doorway. A narrow walkway ran along the side of the Mountain, and there was a high wall with arrow-slits that protected those walking along from a nasty fall.

It was freezing, that high up on slopes. At the Front Gate, breath barely misted, and it was just cold enough to make you want a hat or a scarf over your ears. Up on the battlements, the wind blew fiercely, and Bilbo wished that his cloak was tallowed, to keep it from flapping about so much. Hobbits did not much care for winter, made for warm weather and green grass and harvest as they were, but the cold was good for two things, in Bilbo’s mind. It cooled the burns still on his feet wonderfully, and it gave him an excuse to stand closer to Thorin.

He wrapped his arms around Thorin and asked (with his voice rather muffled, pressed into Thorin’s side as it was), “Did you really wish to come up here to see your nephews off? I thought the wall we built at the Gate was high, but this is even worse, Thorin.”

Thorin was peering over the wall of the battlements, that was true. But his eyes were not fixed on the blue hoods that were making their way down the slope. They were focused further South, and to the East. In the air, tens and hundreds of birds were still flying about— and heading to Dale. If Thorin squinted, he could see the teeming mass of an army approaching the ruined city.

“I came to see if I could see the army Röac’s kin speak of. They are indeed heading to Dale. But to answer your question, aye, I did want to make sure Fíli and Kíli made their way out of the Mountain safely.”

At that, Bilbo unhooked his arms from Thorin and tried his best to peer over the wall. Only, it was a dwarf-wall, and a bit too small for a hobbit, even if he stood on the tips of his toes.

“I will take your word on that,” said Bilbo. “I am almost glad I cannot see over the wall; I could not bear to see the whole of the desolation. And the height I could drop from!”

“There is another reason I brought you here,” Thorin said, beckoning Bilbo closer.

“Why, but you already have three reasons!” Bilbo cried. He approached Thorin again, and stood before him, wrapping an arm about the dwarf. With his free hand, he kept count of his reasons, ticking off a finger for each one he said. “To see two nephews, to see who-knows-how-many Elves and Men, and to make Bilbo Baggins freeze to death. Come, what else could draw you here?”

“A serious predicament we are in, dear hobbit, yet still you jest. Bilbo, you may notice that there is no one else here. No dwarves, for they do not wish to freeze. No ravens, for they do not know we are here yet, though they could soon find us— we are not exactly inconspicuous with our bright mail and colorful hoods. There is a great deal of privacy, up on these battlements, with no one else around.”

“Why on Middle-earth would you need so much privacy for?” asked Bilbo, craning his neck to fix Thorin with a quizzical eye. He smiled widely, to let Thorin know that he knew exactly why the dwarf wanted privacy.

“A kiss,” said Thorin. “Or rather, dear Baggins, a Kiss, a proper one.”

“Proper as in how a Baggins is supposed to be?” asked Bilbo. “Because I do believe I gave you one of those already, Master Oakenshield.”

“Perhaps the sort of proper a Took would find suitable,” said Thorin. “That is what your mother’s name was, correct?”

“Yes, that was her name. Though kindly try not bring up my mother whilst we are in this sort of situation, if you please.”

“Never again will I,” swore Thorin. Then, when Bilbo did not say anything, simply smiling up at him, he said in a most shockingly informal tone: “Well? How about it?”

“It what?”

“A Tookish Kiss. I am expecting one now, Bilbo. Would you disappoint your King, your heart?”

“Certainly not,” said Bilbo. “Especially when he makes such a reasonable request. Now, a Tookish kiss, or Kiss, rather? You should be quite glad, Thorin, that we are out here alone...”

 

* * *

 

It was hard to keep Thorin from going into the Treasure Room. Always he was drifting to the edges of the Company, one or two steps away from standing truly apart. Always he wanted to dwell on the Arkenstone, and gaze upon all the gold that lay there. Always Bilbo would try to keep him with the Company. Often it did not work, but the hobbit still tried.

Now it was not only the fact of the Arkenstone that made Bilbo want Thorin to stay by his side. Every time the dwarf disappeared into the roots of the Mountain, he would come back in the foulest of moods. He would sit away from where the Company worked, and he would fix his gaze onto one spot. There he would stare, and get a look upon his face as if he were concentrating hard on something. And whatever it was he had his mind stuck upon, it was not happy.

Once Bilbo sat next to him, against the smoothly carved tunnel the River Running ran through. With Thorin, he watched the Company direct the water into a narrow channel so that would not destroy the wall they constructed to cover the Front Gate. The Front Gate was tall, and still the wall was taller. There were gaps in the stone to see (or shoot) through, but no entrance. When Bilbo asked how they would get out, a dwarf pointed to a ladder and a system of ropes and pulleys.

“What are you thinking about?” the hobbit asked once he was sat next to Thorin. “I have not seen you this angry since I pulled you out of the Forest River.”

“The gold. The treasure,” said Thorin. “I know what you think, Bilbo: that I am a dwarf consumed by gold lust, with no eye for the troubles I face. An open gate, my sister-sons out of the Mountain, all while enemies approach. But I do not dwell upon the gold because of how I value it, how I desire it.”

“Why do you dwell upon it then?”

“The treasures in that chamber are the heirlooms of my house, and of those who once dwelt near because of the goodwill of the Mountain and her King. All about are dark memories. In every piece I recall all the labors and all the sorrow of my people. I think of all that transpired to bring me back to this place, and how all the criminals approaching my gate plan on taking it all as spoils. I cannot allow it.”

Bilbo did not know what else to do, so he took Thorin’s hand and patted it in a way he hoped was soothing. He liked Thorin’s explanation for his behavior and his sour looks, but he was not sure he fully believed it. The dwarf denied his lust for the gold, but Bilbo had seen the hungry look in his eyes as he searched for the Arkenstone. He remembered the queer way the dwarf changed his behavior in the Treasure Room, the first time they combed through it for prizes. He could not forget the angry words Thorin had with him on Ravenhill, nor the words he gave to Röac.

He supposed both were true. Thorin was angry because of the news of armies advancing onto the Mountain for a bit of gold. He was angry that after all his struggles to reclaim the Mountain, suddenly there were folks in line to take an ill-deserved share of the spoils. But Bilbo knew that treasure did strange things to the minds of dwarves. And Thorin was no exception.

 

* * *

 

“I tire of black news on black wings,” said Thorin, watching Röac fly off once more to his nest.

“We all want peace,” said Balin. “Who knows whether we will get it.”

“Well, no one wants to avoid fighting as much as I do.” Bilbo stood with Thorin, his hand on the small of the dwarf’s back.

“Bilbo, you are the answer to it all. You can give the invaders and brigands one of your stern talking-tos, perhaps,” said Thorin. “Scold them so thoroughly that they have to turn around with their tails between their legs.”

“I cannot tell if you are jesting or not,” Bilbo told the dwarf. “Even if you are, I should like to give that Elvenking a bit of a tongue lashing, even if it is only to tell him that he should leave out more extra food, in case he gets more invisible guests. And also, to work on his spider problem.”

“It will take more than a few words to turn away that elf,” said Balin darkly.

 

* * *

 

Many days had passed, and many of them Bilbo saw neither hair nor hide of Thorin. The dwarf spent more and more days in the Treasure Room, rather than with the Company and Bilbo. One night, he had not been in the little chamber behind the Front Gate for ten minutes when they all heard heavy footsteps coming from behind them. Thorin stood up quickly, letting go of Bilbo’s hand (which he had been holding), to approach the dwarf running to them: it was Balin.

He explained that he had been keeping watch when suddenly, many a score of bright lights and fires sprang up to the South, in Dale.

“They have come!” Balin said, breathing heavily. He had run quickly down from the battlements, and was quite out of breath. “And their camp is very great. They must have come into the valley under the cover of dusk, along both banks of the river.”

Bilbo did not sleep well that night.

 

* * *

 

Thorin did not return to the Treasure Room the day thereafter. He wished to see what the elves and men would do next. As such, he was there when a company of Big Folk riding horses approached the Front Gate. They were all arrayed as if going into war: the Lake-men wore full armor, with swords at their sides, and there were two elvish bowmen riding with them. The dwarves and Bilbo all peered through various holes in the wall (they had laid it dry— as such, there were gaps) to watch and see what they would do.

The elves and men dismounted and picked their way carefully along the banks of the River Running. They stopped short when they saw what the dwarves had done to the Front Gate. They were surprised to see the tall and thick wall, as well as the pool of water that came as a result of the channel they had figured earlier in the week.

The group of them stood at the edge of the pool, speaking and gesturing at the wall. Balin nudged Thorin meaningfully and at last, the dwarf hailed them.

“Who are you,” he called in a loud and deep voice that carried through the stone, “that come as if in war to the gates of Thorin son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain, and what do you desire?”

He got no answer. As soon as the elves and men heard his voice, a large number of them turned swiftly about, heading back to their camp. Three or four of them remained behind, and they gazed awhile at the Gate and its defences. Soon enough, they were gone too.

Just because Thorin resided with the Company at the Gate did not mean that he spoke with them. While the dwarves and Bilbo went off to do other things, he remained standing, looking through the gaps in the stone. What he saw did not please him: Bilbo could hear him grumbling and growling all the way from where he sat, which was next to Glóin, all the way across the entrance chamber.

That day, the Lake-men and the elves moved their camp from Dale to directly in front of the Mountain. It sat in between the South-East and South-Western spurs, directly within the arms of the Mountain. The move was completed, with tents and people situated alike, just as the sun dipped below the distant trees of Mirkwood. Once all was settled, fires and torches flared up, and the rocks of the Mountain echoed with voices of mirth and song, as they had not done for many a day. Along with with the constant rumble of speech, there was the sound, too, of harps and of music. As it all echoed up into the dark space behind the Gate, Bilbo imagined that the chill of the stone was lifted. He could almost smell the fragrance of woodland flowers blossoming in spring.

Once Thorin was satisfied that the folk outside would do nothing more for the rest of the night, he stepped away from the Gate. He joined the loose circle the Company had formed near the channel of the River, in between Bilbo and Glóin. Close as he was to everyone, he did not speak. He did not touch, either. Though Bilbo edged closer and laid out his hand, Thorin did not acknowledge it. He kept his eyes on the gate.

Bilbo longed to escape the Mountain, then. He wished to be free of the dark and the cold. He wished to be warming himself next to a fire, rather than catching a chill at the side of a dwarf King who was doing a fine job of ignoring him. He wanted to be surrounded by mirth and the gentle notes of elf-harps. Most of all, he wished to be eating something warm and filling. He was not the only one who felt this way: the younger dwarves whispered amongst themselves that they wished things had turned out differently. They said normally, they would welcome such as the joyous folk outside as friends.

The scowl Thorin had been wearing since that morning somehow deepened. The Company noticed, and quickly made amends to their words against Thorin’s actions. They brought out the harps they had recovered from the hoard (Thorin had not been the only one combing through the Treasure Room), along with flutes and viols and fiddles and drums. They made music to soften Thorin’s mood and ease his frown. It worked, as it was no elvish music. It reminded Bilbo of the deep and rumbling song they had sung long before in his little hobbit-hole.

Only, instead of singing of the Mountain and the gold they had lost, they sang of what would be done, since now it was theirs. Durin’s wandering folk would return, and Thorin would take his throne. They sang of the Dáin’s people coming from across the desolation to aid Thorin in destroying his foes. Most of all, though, they sang of all the treasure that now belonged to Thorin.

The song had many verses, and when at last it ended, Thorin was well pleased. At any rate, he was in a much better mood from before. He smiled widely and grew merry, and clasped Bilbo’s hand. He laughed aloud at what Bilbo said, although none of it was particularly witty. He pulled the hobbit close and spoke to him of the Iron Hills and his distant cousin, Dáin. He wondered aloud how long it would be until they arrived at the Lonely Mountain, if he had set out as soon as the message from Röac reached him.

Before, Bilbo would have been pleased to have Thorin so close, to have the strong warmth of his hand resting broadly on his. Then, however, at the Gate, it only made Bilbo’s heart fall. He felt that both the song and Thorin’s talk sounded far too warlike.

 

* * *

 

The second time the Lake-men approached the Mountain, the Company watched as Thorin grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows before they all climbed up to the top of the wall. The hobbit knew little of parleys between lords and kings, but he was sure that weapons were not supposed to be involved.

Though the arrows were not used during Thorin’s long talk with Bard, Bilbo was still not comforted. The parley had not gotten anyone anywhere. The hobbit was sure that Thorin would accept Bard’s terms. Because certainly, it was mostly their (Bilbo conveniently forgot how he was the one who egged Smaug on) fault that the dragon had razed Lake-town. Bilbo saw nothing wrong with parting with some of the treasure in order to rebuild the town of Men. And anyway, had Thorin not promised to keep Lake-town’s hospitality in mind once he reclaimed the Mountain?

But Thorin did not think at all of this. He was loathe to part with any of his treasure, and his mind was plagued with the thought of all the suffering and labor his people had gone through to have the Mountain once more within their grasp. He would not part with any of his gold, certainly not with an armed force at his gates. Certainly not with an armed elvish host at his gates! He told Bard as such, and the Man shook his head.

“The Elvenking is my friend, and he has succoured the people of the Lake in their need, though they had no claim but friendship on him,” said he. “We will give you time to repent your words. Gather your wisdom ere we return!” With that, the Man turned his horse and went back to his camp.

The elves and men were gone for many an hour, and during that time Bilbo tried to impart his wisdom on Thorin. He clasped the dwarf’s hand and begged for him to listen.

“We can avoid fighting if you would submit to the Man’s pleas,” said the hobbit. “This siege they want to put us in could be ended in a thrice if we just give them the gold they ask for, and maybe deserve, if you would ask me.”

“Therein lies the issue, dear hobbit,” said Thorin. “They wish to put us under siege. They camp at our gates with an armed host, and then say all they wish to do is parley. I will give no gold to a Man who stands at my gate with sword in hand. I will give no gold to an elf-friend. Instead, I will give him that!” The dwarf cast a very significant look to the bow of horn he had brought to the wall with him. He pulled his hand from Bilbo and crossed his arms with a stern look.

And indeed, Thorin was true to his word. The men of the Lake returned later, with banner-bearers and trumpeters. One of the trumpeters blew a long and loud note, and cried out his message in a well-rehearsed tone.

If Thorin would not submit to the demands of the Lake-men and the Elvenking of Mirkwood, then he would be declared their foe. And the demands were these: one twelfth portion of the treasure hoard of Thorin should be given to Bard, as the dragon-slayer and as the heir of Girion, Lord of Dale. Then, the trumpeter added, “If Thorin would have the friendship and honour of the lands about, as his sires had of old, then he will give also somewhat of his own for the comfort of the Men of the Lake.”

Then, Thorin gave them that, as in, he seized his bow of horn and fired an arrow at the trumpeter who had delivered the message. It struck the shield of the Man, and quivered there as the trumpeter replied in kind.

“If that is your answer,” he called, “in the name of Esgaroth and the Forest, we declare the Mountain besieged. You shall not depart from it, until you call on your side for a truce and a parley. We will bear no weapons against you, and we leave you to your gold. You may eat that, if you will!”

The Men left swiftly then, and the dwarves were left at the Gate consider the turn of events. Some found fault, they voiced none of it. So grim Thorin had become with things that they would not dare to speak against him. Even so, most of the Company agreed with him— except old Bombur and Fíli and his brother. Bilbo, of course, who wanted to avoid any sort of fighting, was most displeased. As Thorin left the Gate to return to the Treasure Room, he did not even attempt to stop him.

 

* * *

 

Many days passed, and much of the time within the Mountain was spent within the Treasure Room. The dwarves spent their waking hours piling and ordering the treasure. Now, at last, Thorin spoke aloud of his Arkenstone to the whole of the Company. He bade them eagerly to look for it everywhere.

Bilbo did not sort treasure, nor did he look for the Arkenstone. Thorin would often stand at the top of the stairs that led down to the Treasure Room, and he had Bilbo stand next to him. Some days, he would depart the chamber entirely and sit instead in the Great Hall (which had since been cleaned of dust and old bones), at the head of the table, in his Grandfather’s great stone seat. He would have Bilbo stand next to him, and spoke to him often. None of his words were happy. He dwelt upon war and gold, and Bilbo no longer expected tender words when the dwarf clasped his hands. Instead, he waited for fierce words of fighting and betrayal.

One day, as they stood above all the gold, Thorin held Bilbo close to him and declared loudly to the Company below: “The Arkenstone of my father,” he said, “is worth more than a river of gold in itself, and to me it is beyond price. That stone of all the treasure I name unto myself, and I will be avenged on anyone who finds it and withholds it.”

Once he was satisfied that the whole of the Company heard and understood him, the dwarf looked fondly down upon Bilbo. The hobbit smiled weakly up at the dwarf, and hoped his legs were not shaking as badly as he imagined they were. He was afraid at these words, wondering what would happen if the stone was found (wrapped up in his pillow). Still, he did not speak of anything concerning the Stone. Before, he had considered making a show of finding it in the treasure, and presenting it to Thorin. He had been feeling most guilty every time the dwarf mentioned it, and for a while he almost did hand it over.

But as the days passed, and Thorin’s demands for the Arkenstone became more frequent and feverish, the makings of an idea came into his little head. The hobbit would not hand over the King’s Jewel: he had bigger plans for the Stone.

 

* * *

 

Many days had passed since Thorin’s threat, and Bilbo finally had most of his plan thought out. It was night, and he was up upon the top of the wall with Thorin. They watched the lights of the camp below them. Trying to ignore an unpleasant mix of nerves and guilt boiling in his stomach, Bilbo frowned as Röac flew down from the busy skies and alighted upon Thorin’s arm. The raven delivered the news that Dáin and more than five hundred dwarves were now two days’ march from Dale, coming from the Iron Hills in the North-East.

“However, they cannot reach the Mountain unnoticed,” croaked the old Raven, “lest there be battle in the valley. This is no good news. Though your kin are grim folk, they are not likely to overcome the host that besets you. And even if they did, what will you gain, Thorin Thráin’s son? Winter and snow approaches, hastening quickly behind the iron-shod feet of your kin. How shall you be fed without the friendship and goodwill of the lands about you? The treasure you hoard is likely to be your death, dwarf!”

Thorin was not impressed by this. “Winter and snow will bite both men and elves,” he said blithely. “They may find their dwelling in the desolation grievous to bear. With my kin behind them and winter upon them, they will perhaps be in softer mood to parley with.”

Röac clacked his beak disapprovingly, and flew off. Thorin watched the bird with hardened eyes, and turned to Bilbo, doubtless to say sort of irate words. Following him down through the Mountain into the treasure room, the hobbit, who normally would have spouted off words of meaningless comfort to the dwarf, shook his head. He grabbed Thorin’s hand and held it tightly, against his chest.

“Do not stay here and dwell in your anger,” said Bilbo. “Do let us go down to the Treasure Room. How about I help you look for that Arkenstone this once, eh?”

Thorin, pleased with the hobbit’s offer, quickly agreed, and led the way down the long ladder that ran up the wall. When they had walked a while from the Gate, nearly halfway down to the Treasure Room, Bilbo stopped in his steps. Thorin stopped too, looking quizzically at Bilbo, who had suddenly dropped his hand.

“Climbing all these stairs,” said the hobbit. “Well, you know how tired it makes me Thorin, me dear. I believe I shall go off to bed, and join you down there in the morning, with fresh eyes and rested feet.”

“I do not forget the stiffness of your hobbit-legs,” said Thorin, smiling still with the thought of Bilbo’s previous offer. “You would do well to rest, love. Who knows how long these days coming will last? I will see you come morning. Then we will search long and thoroughly.”

“Good-night!” called Bilbo, as Thorin descended the steps. He began to walk as soon as the dwarf was out of earshot. He quickly made his way to where he was sleeping, which was in a little corner in the inner chamber just within the Gate. However, he was not there to sleep. From his pack he withdrew a coil of rope and a bundle of rags. Any dwarf watching would not have known what the hobbit carried, which is lucky, since inside the untidy bundle was the gleaming Arkenstone.

Bilbo, holding his two bundles close to his chest, began the difficult process of climbing to the top of the wall. It took a great deal of climbing and edging along narrow lips of stone. Much too adventurous for a simple hobbit on his own, like Bilbo was. He was much more comfortable making the climb with a sturdy and strong dwarf at his back, like Dori or Glóin. Still, he did it himself, and only slipped twice. He had to do it; he had to do it deliver the King’s Jewel to the hands of Bard and the Elvenking.

 

* * *

 

There was no gentle clasp of thanks. No sweet caress in the foul dungeons of Mirkwood. It was not even a tight squeeze and a violent tug, to lift him back onto a forest path. There was at least still some love, some fondness in that. The hobbit longed for the soft touch and cool blankets he had had in that room in the Lake-house. Bilbo had so long admired the dwarf’s broad, strong hands. Warm and callused and burned, they were, yet still a King’s hands. Powerful and gentle, always Bilbo sought to reach out and clasp one. He wanted to rub his thumb across their backs, and kiss his knuckles and his polished rings.

Bilbo had never imagined this dwarf, his hands, to touch him like this. So long had they been a comfort to him, a place of solace. There was fire, foul goblins, choking, loathsome creatures in dark caves; but then there was also this one spot of light, this touch that his dwarf King offered him. No longer.

Now, the dwarf he loved— (for that was a good word for it, though our hobbit ached for a less painful way of saying how he felt)— had his hands tightly gripping him like a vice. The dwarf had at first gone for his throat, but instead settled for the hobbit’s waist, so that he could hold Bilbo tightly and shake him like a rabbit.

All for the sake of that stone, the one that Bard now held glimmering in his hands.

Thorin was shouting something, and it did not quite reach Bilbo’s ears. The poor fellow was terrified, and rightly so. He had given the King’s Jewel to Bard, all for Thorin’s benefit, and now see where it got him. All he had was care for Thorin, and what was the dwarf doing in return? Shaking him and pushing him and shouting about throwing him to the rocks.

That was where Bilbo began to hear what the dwarf was bellowing at him.

“By the beard of Durin!” the dwarf had yelled. At first, he had suffered from a loss of words, but now he was quite able at verbally lashing the hobbit he was continuing to shake roughly. “I wish I had Gandalf here! Curse him for his choice of you! Curse him for bringing you to me! May his beard wither! Never should I have trusted his honeyed words, nor your false touch! I will throw you to the rocks!”

Bilbo looked fearfully between Thorin and the rocks below him. Then he shut them tightly, once the dwarf began to follow through on his threat, and lifted him up in the air. For one terrifying second, the hobbit was suspended in midair. He moaned and grasped uselessly at Thorin’s hands, praying that he would be put down, praying that he would not be thrown to the rocks and the shallow pool below.

And then Thorin did put him down, though not because of any fondness for Bilbo or his pleading touches. It was because of Gandalf, who had suddenly revealed himself.

“Here is Gandalf!” shouted the wizard. “And none too soon it seems. If you don’t like my Burglar, please do not damage him. Put him down, and listen first what he has to say!”

“You are all in league!” shouted Thorin, finally dropping Bilbo safely on top of the wall. “Never again will I deal with wizards or their friends.” Then he turned to Bilbo, and said in a voice that would not carry: “What have you to say, you descendant of rats?”

“Dear me!” said Bilbo. “This is all very uncomfortable. Remember when you said, Thorin, that I may choose my fourteenth share? You said it on the doorstep, while you held— well, never mind what you were doing. Perhaps I took it too literally— I know now that dwarves are politer in word rather than deed. It was at a time, all the same, when you seemed to think that I was of some service. My dear!” Bilbo fought the emotion growing in his voice, and the lump that was determined to settle in his throat. He willed his voice not to tremble. “Descendant of rats, indeed! Is this all the service of you and your family that I was promised, Thorin? Is this the care and gentleness I was to be given? Forgive me, as I thought this would all work out in everyone’s favor. Or at least rid us of this siege, and abate any fighting, so that you could have peace with the elves, and I with you. Please take it that I have disposed of my share as I wished, and let it go at that!”

“I will,” said Thorin grimly. Bilbo, in later years, imagined that the dwarf’s dark eyes were wet and his voice hoarse as he said, “I will let it go. And I will let you go at that, as well— and may we never meet again! You have betrayed me, Bilbo.” And then he turned and spoke once again in a loud voice: “I am betrayed. You all guessed rightly that I could not forbear to redeem the Arkenstone, the treasure of my house. For it I will give one fourteenth share of the hoard in silver and gold, setting aside the gems; but that shall be accounted against the promised share of this traitor, and with that reward he shall depart, and you can divide it as you will. He will get little of it, I doubt and hope not. Take him, if you wish him to live (I would not); and no care of mine goes with him!

“Get down now to your friends!” he said aside to Bilbo then, “or I will throw you down!”

“What about the gold and silver?” asked Bilbo weakly.

“That shall follow after, as can be arranged,” said Thorin. “Now get down! Get out of my sight!”

He pushed Bilbo away, and turned from him. Balin then stepped forward and helped Bilbo down the wall with the aid of ropes. Once he was down, the Company watched him walk away with a great deal of shame and pity in their hearts.

“Farewell!” Bilbo called, a trembling in his voice. He scrubbed viciously at his eyes and made his way to Gandalf, who quickly wrapped him in his grey cloak.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo awoke painfully, and all alone, lying down on the flat stones of Ravenhill. There was no one near. A cloudless sky was above him, cloudless, cold, and free of wheeling birds. The hobbit was shaking with cold, and his hands and feet were as chilled as blocks of stone, but his head burned with fire. He raised a hand to his brow and felt a drying sort of stickiness there.

“Now I wonder what has happened?” said the hobbit to himself. “At any rate I am not yet one of the fallen heroes of that battle; but I suppose there is still time enough for that!”

Then he sat up, though not without a great deal of effort and pain. Looking down from the guard-post, he saw no living goblins in the valley laid out before him. He sat there for a while, letting his head clear. After several minutes passed, the fellow thought he could see elves moving around in the rocks below. He rubbed at his eyes and peered down, and sure enough, there was a camp still in the plain some distance off. And at the wide and tall Gate below him, a group of dwarves seemed to be removing the wall he had helped put up. Yet besides that, all was deadly still. There was no sound of voices, and no echo of song. The very air trembled with sorrow.

“Victory, then,” said Bilbo. He rubbed at his sharply aching head, and blinked away the tears pain had brought to his eyes. “It all seems like very gloomy business, yes.”

Suddenly he was aware that there was a man climbing up the rocks to Ravenhill. Bilbo supposed his head was so addled from the bump on his head that he could not notice what was right in front of him.

“Hullo there!” called the hobbit in a shaky voice. “Hullo! What news?”

“What voice speaks among the stone?” said the man, stopping in his trek. He peered about him among the stones, searching for a speaker. It was then that Bilbo remembered he had his ring on (he had put it on right as Gandalf announced the goblin army that was approaching yesterday— was it yesterday?).

 _‘This invisibility has its drawbacks after all!’_ thought Bilbo. _‘Otherwise I might have spent a warm and comfortable night in bed, down at the camp!’_ Then, he took off his ring.

“Its me, Bilbo Baggins!” he cried. “Companion of Thorin!” Bilbo had forgotten what had transpired between him and Thorin, and was quickly reminded of it in that moment. It was a pain that felt like something had struck him in his gut. Shaking his head, he looked up at the man.

“It is well that I have found you!” said the man. He had walked the last few strides to where Bilbo was sitting. “You are needed and we have looked for you long. You would have been numbered amongst the dead if Gandalf had not said that your voice was last heard in this place. That is why I am here; I was sent to look for the last time. Are you much hurt?”

The man bent down to get a good look at Bilbo. “I had a nasty knock in the head,” said Bilbo. “Luckily, I have a helm and a hard skull. All the same, I feel sick if I move too quickly, and my legs are like straws, fit to break.”

“I will carry you then,” said the man. He picked Bilbo lightly up, and made his way down the Mountain. As they travelled down, the man would not tell Bilbo why he was needed. He said that Gandalf wished to deliver the news, and that Bilbo had better be patient. Well, Bilbo did not wish much to be patient. Good for him, the man who carried him was swift, and knew where he was going. His legs were much longer than any dwarf’s, and so it was not long before Bilbo was set down before a tent in Dale. Standing in front of the tent with his arm in a sling stood Gandalf. Bilbo shuddered to think that even the wizard had been harmed in the battle. He worriedly wondered how his friends— how Thorin had fared.

“Baggins!” exclaimed Gandalf, as the hobbit was set down at his feet. “Alive after all. I am glad! I began to wonder if even your miraculous luck would see you through that battle! A terrible business, it was, and nearly disastrous. But news of that can wait. Come!” he said suddenly, his voice more grave than Bilbo had ever heard it. Not even on that burning cliffside had Bilbo heard his friend sound so grim. He trembled under the heavy gaze of the wizard. “You are called for.” He pulled Bilbo up onto his feet, and letting the fellow lean upon him, led him into the tent. “Hail Thorin!” said he as they entered. “I have brought him.”

There in the tent lay Thorin Oakenshield. He was wounded most grievously, with deep cuts and gouges riddling his skin. His side looked almost crushed, struck so heavily as it was by the goblins. Bandaged he was, but blood steadily soaked through it all. The black blood of goblins flecked his skin as well, and the hobbit ached to wash it away. Bilbo felt something lodge in his throat, and he walked quickly and silently to Thorin’s side. On the other side of the dwarf’s bed was his rent armor and notched axe. Thorin looked up at him as he approached, and in spite of all his wounds, all his pain, he smiled.

“Farewell, my good thief,” said he. “I go now to the halls of my fathers, until the world is renewed. I go now to a place where gold and silver has little worth. I wish to part from you in friendship. I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate.”

Bilbo swallowed heavily and sank slowly to his knees. “Good-bye, my King Under the Mountain,” he said. He did not cry, though tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He wanted Thorin to hear what he had to say, and he would not have Thorin hearing him sob in his last moments. He smiled weakly. “And speak not of friendship. This is a bitter adventure, to have it end this way. I would have contented myself with those rainy days in the woods, or dances in the rose-lit gold, with your steady hand at my side. No treasure can amend this. Yet, Thorin, I am glad to have shared in your perils— it is more than any Baggins deserves.”

“No!” said Thorin. “There is so much good in you that you do not know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. Brave and clever you are, and I would have had you and your council at my side for many years. I could have treasured you and your hobbit spirit. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. Be it sad or merry, I must leave it now, dear Baggins. Farewell.”

Bilbo did not turn away, not for a while. Nor did he cry. Not then. He looked down at the face of Thorin Oakenshield, bloody and bruised. He slowly pulled his hand out of the dwarf’s dead grip.


End file.
